NESOM 

IL 


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•'SAT!  TOU  WOULDN'T  GET  MAD  AT  A  LITTLE  THING  LIKB  THAT,  WOULD  TUH  ?' 

Page  50. 


THE 
LONESOME  TRAIL 


BY 

B.  M.  BOWER 

(B.  M.  SINCLAIR) 

AUTHOR  OF 

CHIP    OF    THE    FLYING    U,    THE    RANGE    DWELLERS. 

HER  PRAIRIE  KNIGHT.  THE  LURE  OF  THE  DIM 

TRAILS,  THE  HAPPY  FAMILY.  THB 

LONG  SHADOW,  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 

Made  in  the  United  States  of  America 


Copyright  1904  1905  )9(tt  IfO?  fe$ 
STREET  &  SMITH 

Copyright  1909  by 
*.  W.  D1JUUNGHAM  COMPASS 


CONTENTS 

Page 

THE  LONESOME  TRAIL   9 

FIRST  AID  TO  CUPID 105 

WHEN  THE  COOK  FELL  ILL 134 

THE  LAMB 165 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  RANGE 201 

THE  REVELER « 233 

THE  UNHEAVENLY  TWINS  .. 266 


The  Lonesome  Trail 


PART  ONE    ;>  :    5 ...... 

A  MAN  is  very  much  like  a  horse.  Once  thoroughly 
frightened  by  something  he  meets  on  the  road,  he 
will  invariably  shy  at  the  same  place  afterwards,  until 
a  wisely  firm  master  leads  him  perforce  to  the  spot  and 
proves  beyond  all  doubt  that  the  danger  is  of  his  own 
imagining;  after  which  he  will  throw  up  his  head  and 
deny  that  he  ever  was  afraid — and  be  quite  amusingly 
sincere  in  the  denial. 

It  is  true  of  every  man  with  high-keyed  nature,  a 
decent  opinion  of  himself  and  a  healthy  pride  of  power. 
It  was  true  of  Will  Davidson,  of  the  Flying  U — com 
monly  known  among  his  associates,  particularly  tht 
Happy  Family,  as  "Weary."  As  to  the  cause  of  his 
shying  at  a  certain  object,  that  happened  long  ago. 

Many  miles  east  of  the  Bear  Paws,  in  the  town  where 
9 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

Weary  had  minced  painfully  along  the  streets  on  pink, 
protesting,  bare  soles  before  the  frost  was  half  out  of 
ihe  ground;  had  yelled  himself  hoarse  and  run  himself 
lame  in  the  redoubtable  base-ball  nine  which  was  ta 
make  that  town  some  day  famous — the  nine  where  they 
often  played  with  seven  "men"  because  the  other  two 
lhad  to  ""bug"  potatoes  or  do  some  other  menial  task 
and  where  the  umpire  frequently  engaged  in  throwing 
lumps  of  dried  mud  at  refractory  players, — there  had 
lived  a  Girl. 

She  might  have  lived  there  a  century  and  Weary 
been  none  the  worse,  had  he  not  acquired  the  unfortu- 
nate habit  of  growing  up.  Even  then  he  might  have 
escaped  injury  had  he  not  persisted  in  growing  up  and 
up,  a  straight  six-feet-two  of  lovable  good  looks,  with 
the  sunniest  of  tempers  and  blue  eyes  that  reflected 
the  warm  sweetness  of  that  nature,  and  a  smile  to  tell 
what  the  eyes  left  unsaid. 

Such  being  the  tempting  length  of  him,  the  Girl  saw 
that  he  was  worth  an  effort;  she  took  to  smoking  the 
chimney  of  her  bedroom  lamp,  heating  curling  irons, 
wearing  her  best  hat  and  best  ribbons  on  a  weekday 

10 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

and  insisting  upon  crowding  number  four-and-a-half 
feet  into  number  three-and-a-half  shoes  and  managing 
to  look  as  if  she  were  perfectly  comfortable.  When  a 
girl  does  all  those  things,  and  when  she  has  a  good 
complexion  and  hair  vividly  red  and  long,  heavy- 
lidded  blue  eyes  that  have  a  fashion  of  looking  side- 
long at  a  man,  it  were  well  for  that  man  to  travel — 
if  he  would  keep  the  lightness  of  his  heart  and  the 
sunny  look  in  his  eyes  and  his  smile. 

Weary  traveled,  but  the  trouble  was  that  he  did  not 
go  soon  enough.  When  he  did  go,  his  eyes  were  somber 
instead  of  sunny,  and  he  smiled  not  at  all.  And  in  his 
heart  he  carried  a  deep-rooted  impulse  to  shy  always 
at  women — and  so  came  to  resemble  a  horse. 

He  shied  at  long,  blue  eyes  and  turned  his  own  un- 
compromisingly away.  He  never  would  dance  with  a 
woman  who  had  red  hair,  except  in  quadrilles  where  he 
could  not  help  himself;  and  then  his  hand-clasp  was 
brief  and  perfunctory  when  it  came  to  "  Grand  right- 
and-left."  If  commanded  to  "  Balance-swing,1 9  the  red- 
haired  woman  was  swung  airily  by  the  finger-tips — j 
which  was  not  the  way  in  which  Weary  swung  the  others. 

II 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

And  then  came  the  schoolma'am.  The  school- 
ma'am's  hair  was  the  darkest  brown  and  had  a  shine  to 
it  where  the  light  struck  at  the  proper  angle,  and  her 
eyes  were  large  and  came  near  being  round,  and  they 
jvere  a  velvety  brown  and  also  had  a  shine  in  them. 

Still  Weary  shied  consistently  and  systematically. 

At  the  leap-year  ball,  given  on  New  Year's  night, 
when  the  ladies  were  invited  to  "choose  your  pard- 
ners  for  the  hull  dance,  regardless  of  who  brought 
yuh,"  the  schoolma'am  had  forsaken  Joe  Meeker,  with 
whose  parents  she  boarded,  and  had  deliberately 
chosen  Weary.  The  Happy  Family  had,  with  one 
accord,  grinned  at  him  in  a  way  that  promised  many 
things  and,  up  to  the  coming  of  the  Fourth  of  July, 
every  promise  had  been  conscientiously  fulfilled. 

They  brought  him  many  friendly  messages  from  the 
schoolma'am,  to  which  he  returned  unfriendly  answers. 
When  he  accused  them  openly  of  trying  to  "  load' :  him, 
they  were  shocked  and  grieved.  They  told  him  the 
schoolma'am  said  she  felt  drawn  to  him — he  looked  so 
like  her  darling  brother  who  had  spilled  his  precious 
blood  on  San  Juan  Hill.  Cal  iLmmett  was  exceedingly 

12 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

proud  of  this  invention,  since  it  seemed  to  "go  down" 
with  Weary  better  than  most  of  the  lies  they  told. 

It  was  the  coming  of  the  Fourth  and  the  celebration 
Df  that  day  which  provoked  further  effort  to  tease 
Weary. 

"Who  are  you  going  to  take,  Weary?"  Cal  Emmett 
lowered  his  left  eyelid  very  gently,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
others,  and  drew  a  match  sharply  along  the  wall  just 
over  his  head 

"Myself,"  answered  Weary  sweetly,  though  it  was 
becoming  a  sore  subject. 

"You're  sure  going  in  bum  company,  then,"  re- 
torted Cal. 

"Who's  going  to  pilot  the  schoolma'am?"  blur  led 
Happy  Jack,  who  was  never  consciously  ambiguous. 

"You  can  search  me"  said  Weary,  in  a  you-make- 
me-tired  tone.  "She  sure  isn't  going  with  Yours 
Truly." 

" Ain't  she  asked  yuh  yet?"  fleered  Cal.  "That's 
funny.  She  told  me  the  other  day  she  was  going  to 
take  advantage  of  woman's  privilege,  this  year,  and 
choose  her  own  escort  for  the  dance.  Then  she  asked 

13 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

me  if  I  knew  whether  you  were  spoke  for,  and  when  I 
told  her  yuh  wasn't,  she  wanted  to  know  if  I'd  bring  a 
note  over.  But  I  was  in  a  dickens  of  a  hurry,  and 
couldn't  wait  for  it;  anyhow,  I  was  headed  the  other 
way." 

"Not  toward  Len  Adams,  were  you?"  asked  Weary 
sympathetically. 

"Aw,  she'll  give  you  an  invite,  all  right,"  Happy 
Jack  declared.  "Little  Willie  ain't  going  to  be  forgot, 
yun  can  gamble  on  that.  He's  too  much  like  Darling 
Brother—" 

At  this  point,  Happy  Jack  ducked  precipitately  and 
a  flapping,  four-buckled  overshoe,  a  relic  of  the  winter 
gone,  hurtled  past  his  head  and  landed  with  consider- 
able force  upon  the  unsuspecting  stomach  of  Cal, 
stretched  luxuriously  upon  his  bunk.  Cal  doubled 
like  a  threatened  caterpillar  and  groaned,  and  Weary, 
feeling  that  justice  had  not  been  defeated  even  though 
he  had  aimed  at  another  culprit,  grinned  complacently. 

"What  horse  are  you  going  to  take?"  asked  Chip,  to 
turn  the  subject. 

"Glory.  I'm  thinking  of  putting  him  up  against 
14 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

Bert  Rogers'  Flopper.  Bert's  getting  altogether  too 
nifty  oxrer  that  cayuse  of  his.  He  needs  to  be  walked 
away  from,  once;  Glory's  the  little  horse  that  can  learn 
'em  things  about  running,  if — " 

"Yeah— if!"  This  from  Cal,  who  had  recovered 
speech.  "Have  yuh  got  a  written  guarantee  from 
Glory,  that  hell  run?" 

"  Aw,"  croaked  Happy  Jack,  "  if  he  runs  at  all,  it'll 
likely  be  backwards — if  it  ain't  a  dancin'-bear  stunt  on 
his  hind  feet.  You  can  gamble  it'll  be  what  yuh  don't 
expect  and  ain't  got  any  money  on;  that  there's  Glory, 
from  the  ground  up." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  Weary  drawled  placidly.  "I'm 
not  setting  him  before  the  public  as  a  twin  to  Mary's 
little  lamb,  but  I'm  willing  to  risk  him.  He's  a  good 
little  horse — when  he  feels  that  way — and  he  can  run. 
And  darn  him,  he's  got  to  run!" 

Shorty  quit  snoring  and  rolled  over.  "Betche  ten 
dollars,  two  to  one,  he  won't  run,"  he  said,  digging  hii 
fists  into  his  eyes  like  a  baby. 

Weary,  dead  game,  took  him  up,  though  he  knew 
what  desperate  chances  he  was  taking. 

15 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

"Betche  five  dollars,  even  up,  he  runs  backwards," 
grinned  Happy  Jack,  and  Weary  accepted  that  wager 
also. 

The  rest  of  the  afternoon  was  filled  with  Glory — so 
co  speak — and  much  coin  was  hazarded  upon  his 
doing  every  unseemly  thing  that  a  horse  can  possibly 
do  at  a  race,  except  the  one  thing  which  he  did  do; 
which  goes  to  prove  that  Glory  was  not  an  ordinary 
cayuse,  and  that  he  had  a  reputation  to  maintain.  To 
the  day  of  his  death,  it  may  be  said,  he  maintained  it. 

Dry  Lake  was  nothing  if  not  patriotic.  Every 
legal  holiday  was  observed  in  true  Dry  Lake  manner, 
to  the  tune  of  violins  and  the  swish-swish  of  slippered 
feet  upon  a  more-or-less  polished  floor.  The  Glorious 
Fourth,  however,  was  celebrated  with  more  elaborate 
amusements.  On  that  day  men  met,  organized  and 
played  a  matched  game  of  ball  with  much  shouting  and 
great  gusto,  and  with  an  umpire  wno  aimed  to  piease. 

After  that  they  arranged  their  horseraces  o\er  the 
bar  of  the  saloon,  and  rode,  ran  or  walked  to  the  quarter- 
mile  stretch  of  level  trail  beyond  the  stockyards  to  wit- 
ness the  running;  when  they  would  hurry  back  to  settle 

16 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

their  bets  over  the  bar  where  they  had  drunk  to  the 
preliminaries. 

Bert  Rogers  came  early,  riding  Flopper.  Men 
hurried  from  the  saloon  to  gather  round  the  horse  that 
held  the  record  of  beating  a  "real  race-horse"  the 
summer  before.  They  felt  his  legs  sagely  and  wondered 
that  anyone  should  seem  anxious  to  question  his  ability 
to  beat  anything  in  the  country  in  a  straightaway 
quarter-mile  dash. 

When  the  Flying  U  boys  clattered  into  town  in  a 
bunch,  they  were  greeted  enthusiastically;  for  old  Jim 
Whitmore's  "Happy  Family"  was  liked  to  a  man.  The 
enthusiasm  did  not  extend  to  Glory,  however.  He  was 
eyed  askance  by  those  who  knew  him  or  who  had  heard 
of  his  exploits.  If  the  Happy  Family  had  not  backed 
him  loyally  to  a  man,  he  would  not  have  had  a  dollar 
risked  upon  him;  and  this  not  because  he  could  not  run, 

Glory  was  an  alien,  one  of  a  carload  of  horses  shipped 
in  from  Arizona  the  summer  before.  He  was  a  bright 
sorrel,  with  the  silvery  mane  and  tail  and  white  feet 
which  one  so  seldom  sees  —  a  beauty,  none  could  deny. 
His  temper  was  not  so  beautiful. 

17 


The     Lonesome     Tr  a  i  1 

Sometimes  for  days  he  was  lamblike  in  his  obedience, 
touching  in  his  muzzling  affection  till  Weary  was  lulled 
into  unwatchful  love  for  the  horse.  Then  things 
would  happen. 

Once,  Weary  walked  with  a  cane  for  two  weeks. 
Another  time  he  walked  ten  miles  in  the  rain.  Once 
he  did  not  walk  at  all,  but  sat  on  a  rock  and  smoked 
cigarettes  till  his  tobacco  sack  ran  empty,  waiting  for 
Glory  to  quit  sulking,  flat  on  his  side,  and  get  up  and 
carry  him  home. 

Any  man  but  Weary  would  have  ruined  the  horse 
with  harshness,  but  Weary  was  really  proud  of  his 
deviltry  and  would  laugh  till  the  tears  came  while  he 
told  of  some  new  and  undreamed  bit  of  cussedness  in 
his  pet. 

On  this  day,  Glory  was  behaving  beautifully.  True, 
he  had  nearly  squeezed  the  life  out  of  Weary  that  morn- 
fog  when  he  went  to  saddle  him  in  the  stall,  and  he 
had  afterwards  snatched  Cal  Emmett's  hat  off  with  his 
teeth,  and  had  dropped  it  to  the  ground  and  had  stood 
upon  it;  but  on  the  whole,  the  Happy  Family  re- 
garded those  trifles  as  a  good  sign. 

18 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

When  Bert  Rogers  and  Weary  ambled  away  down  the 
dusty  trail  to  the  starting  point,  accompanied  by  most 
of  the  Flying  U  boys  and  two  or  three  from  Bert's 
outfit,  the  crowd  in  the  grand-stand  (which  was  the  top 
rail  of  the  stockyard  fence)  hushed  expectantly. 

When  a  pistol  cracked,  far  down  the  road,  and  a 
faint  yell  came  shrilling  through  the  quiet  sunshine, 
they  craned  necks  till  their  muscles  ached.  Like  a 
summer  sand-storm  they  came,  and  behind  them 
clattered  their  friends,  the  dust  concealing  horse  and 
rider  alike.  Whooping  encouraging  words  at  random, 
they  waited  till  a  black  nose  shot  out  from  the  rushing 
cloud.  That  was  Flopper.  Beside  it  a  white  streak^ 
a  flying,  silvery  mane — Glory  was  running!  Happy 
Jack  gave  a  raucous  yell. 

Lifting  reluctantly,  the  dust  gave  hazy  glimpses  of  a 
long,  black  body  hugging  jealously  close  to  earth,  its 
rider  lying  low  upon  the  straining  neck — that  was 
Flopper  and  Bert 

Close  beside,  a  sheeny  glimmer  of  red,  a  tossing 
fringe  of  white,  a  leaning,  wiry,  exultant  form  above- 
that  was  Glory  and  Weary. 

19 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

There  were  groans  as  well  as  shouting  when  the 
whirlwind  had  swept  past  and  on  down  the  hill  toward 
town,  and  the  reason  thereof  was  plain.  Glory  had 
won  by  a  good  length  of  him. 

Bert  Rogers  said  something  savage  and  set  his 
weight  upon  the  bit  till  Flopper,  snorting  and  disgusted 
— for  a  horse  knows  when  he  is  beaten — took  shorter 
leaps,  stiffened  his  front  legs  and  stopped,  digging  fur- 
rows with  his  feet. 

Glory  sailed  on  down  the  trail,  scattering  Mrs.  Jen- 
son's  chickens  and  jumping  clean  over  a  lumbering, 
protesting  sow.  "Come  on — he's  going  to  set  up  the 
drinks!'7  yelled  someone,  and  the  crowd  leaped  from 
the  fence  and  followed. 

But  Glory  did  not  stop.  He  whipped  around  the 
saloon,  whirled  past  the  blacksmith  shop  and  was 
headed  for  the  mouth  of  the  lane  before  anyone  under- 
stood. Then  Chip,  suddenly  grasping  the  situation, 
dug  deep  with  his  spurs  and  yelled. 

"He's  broken  the  bit — it's  a  runaway!" 

Thus  began  the  second  race,  a  free-for-all  dash  up 
the  lane.  At  the  very  start  they  knew  it  was  hopeless 

20 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

to  attempt  overtaking  that  red  streak,  but  they  galloped 
a  mile  for  good  manners'  sake;  Cal  then  pulled  up. 

"No  use,"  he  said.  "Glory's  headed  for  home  and 
we  ain't  got  the  papers  to  stop  him.  He  can't  hurt 
Weary — and  the  dance  opens  up  at  six,  and  I've  got  a 
girl  in  town." 

"Same  here,"  grinned  Bert.     "It's  after  four,  now." 

Chip,  who  at  that  time  hadn't  a  girl — and  didn't 
want  one — let  Silver  out  for  another  long  gallop,  seeing 
it  was  Weary.  Then  he,  too,  gave  up  the  chase  and 
turned  back. 

Glory  settled  to  a  long  lope  and  kept  steadily  on, 
gleefully  rattling  the  broken  bit  which  dangled  beneath 
his  jaws.  Weary,  helpless  and  amused  and  triumph- 
ant because  the  race  was  his,  sat  unconcernedly  in  the 
saddle  and  laid  imaginary  bets  with  himself  on  the  out- 
come. Without  doubt,  Glory  was  headed  for  home. 
Weary  figured  that,  barring  accidents,  he  could  catch 
up  Blazes,  in  the  little  pasture,  and  ride  back  to  Dry 
Lake  by  the  time  the  dance  was  in  full  swing — for  the 
dancing  before  dark  would  be  desultory  and  without 
much  spirit. 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

But  the  gate  into  the  big  field  was  closed  and  tied 
securely  with  a  rope.  Glory  comprehended  the  fact 
with  one  roll  of  his  knowing  eyes,  turned  away  to  the 
left  and  took  the  trail  which  wound  like  a  snake  into 
the  foothills.  Clinging  warily  to  the  level  where  choice 
was  given  him,  trotting  where  the  way  was  rough,  mile 
after  mile  he  covered  till  even  Weary's  patience  showed 
signs  of  weakening. 

Just  then  Glory  turned,  where  a  wire  gate  lay  flat 
upon  the  ground,  crossed  a  pebbly  creek  and  galloped 
stiffly  up  to  the  very  steps  of  a  squat,  vine-covered 
ranch-house  where,  like  the  Discontented  Pendulum 
in  the  fable,  he  suddenly  stopped. 

"Damn  you,  Glory — I  could  kill  yuh  for  this!" 
gritted  Weary,  and  slid  reluctantly  from  the  saddle. 
For  while  the  place  seemed  deserted,  it  was  not.  There 
was  a  girl. 

She  lay  in  a  hammock;  sprawled  would  come  nearer 
describing  her  position.  She  had  some  magazines 
scattered  around  upon  the  porch,  and  her  hair  hung 
down  to  the  floor  in  a  thick,  dark  braid.  She  was 
dressed  in  a  dark  skirt  and  what,  to  Weary's  untrained, 

22 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

masculine  eyes,  looked  like  a  pink  gunny  sack.     In 
reality  it  was  a  kimono.     She  appeared  to  be  asleep. 

Weary  saw  a  chance  of  leading  Glory  quietly  to  the 
corral  before  she  woke.  There  he  could  borrow  a 
bridle  and  ride  back  whence  he  came,  and  he  could 
explain  about  the  bridle  to  Joe  Meeker  in  town.  Joe 
was  always  good  about  lending  things,  anyway.  He 
gathered  the  fragments  of  the  bit  in  one  hand  and 
clucked  under  his  breath,  in  an  agony  lest  his  spurs 
should  jingle. 

Glory  turned  upon  him  his  beautiful,  brown  eyes, 
reproachfully  questioning. 

Weary  pulled  steadily.  Glory  stretched  neck  and 
nose  obediently,  but  as  to  fret,  they  were  down  to 
stay. 

Weary  glanced  anxiously  toward  the  hammock  and 
perspired,  then  stood  back  and  whispered  language 
It  would  be  a  sin  to  repeat.     Glory,  listening  with  un 
ruffled  calm,   stood  perfectly  still,  like  a  red  statue  in 
the  sunshine. 

The  face  of  the  girl  was  hidden  under  one  roundj 
loose-sleeved  arm.  She  did  not  move.  A  faint  breezej 

23 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

freshening  in  spasmodic  puffs,  seized  upon  the  hammock 
and  set  it  swaying  gently. 

"Oh,  damn  you,  Glory!"  whispered  Weary  through 
ais  teeth.  But  Glory,  accustomed  to  being  damned 
since  he  was  a  yearling,  displayed  absolutely  no  in- 
terest. Indeed,  he  seemed  inclined  to  doze  there  in 
the  sun. 

Taking  his  hat — his  best  hat — from  his  head,  he 
belabored  Glory  viciously  over  the  jaws  with  it;  silent- 
ly except  for  the  soft  thud  and  slap  of  felt  on  flesh. 
And  the  mood  of  him  was  as  near  murder  as  Weary 
could  come.  Glory  had  been  belabored  with  worse 
things  than  hats  during  his  eventful  career;  he  laid 
back  his  ears,  shut  his  eyes  tight  and  took  it  meekly. 

There  came  a  gasping  gurgle  from  the  hammock, 
and  Weary's  hand  stopped  in  mid-air.  The  girPs 
head  was  burrowed  in  a  pillow  and  her  slippers  tapped 
the  floor  while  she  laughed  and  laughed. 

Weary  delivered  a  parting  whack,  put  on  his  hat 
and  looked  at  her  uncertainly;  grinned  sheepishly  when 
the  humor  of  the  thing  came  to  him  slowly,  and  final- 
ly sat  down  upon  the  porch  steps  and  laughed  with  her, 


The     L  o  nesome     Trail 

"Oh,  gee!  It  was  too  funny/'  gasped  the  girl,  sit- 
ting up  and  wiping  her  eyes. 

Weary  gasped  also,  though  it  was  a  small  matter — 
a  common  little  word  of  three  letters.  In  all  the  messa- 
ges sent  him  by  the  schoolma'am,  it  was  the  precise ; 
school-grammar  wording  of  them  which  had  irritated 
him  most  and  impressed  him  insensibly  with  the  belief 
that  she  was  too  prim  to  be  quite  human.  The  Happy 
Family  had  felt  all  along  that  they  were  artists  in  that 
line,  and  they  knew  that  the  precise  sentences  ever 
carried  conviction  of  their  truth.  Weary  mopped 
his  perspiring  face  upon  a  white  silk  handkerchief  and 
meditated  wonderingly. 

"You  aren't  a  train-robber  or  a  horsethief,  or — any- 
thing, are  you?"  she  asked  him  presently.  "You 
seemed  quite  upset  at  seeing  the  place  wasn't  deserted; 
but  I'm  sure,  if  you  are  a  robber  running  away  from 
i  sheriff,  I'd  never  dream  of  stopping  you.  Please 
don't  mind  me;  just  make  yourself  at  home." 

Weary  turned  his  head  and  looked  straight  up  at 
her.  "I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to  disappoint  yuh,  Miss 
Satterly,"  he  said  blandly.  "I'm  just  an  ordinary 

25 


The     Lonesome     Trai! 

human,  and  my  name  is  Davidson — better  known  as 
Weary.  You  don't  appear  to  remember  me.  We've 
oaet  before." 

She  eyed  him  attentively.  "Perhaps  we  have — it 
you  say  so.  I'm  wretched  about  remembering  strange 
names  and  faces.  Was  it  at  a  dance?  I  meet  so 
many  fellows  at  dances — "  She  waved  a  brown  little 
hand  and  smiled  deprecatingly. 

"Yes,"  said  Weary  laconically,  still  looking  into  hei 
face.  "It  was." 

She  stared  down  at  him,  her  brows  puckered.  "I 
know,  now.  It  was  at  the  Saint  Patrick's  dance  in  Dry 
Lake!  How  silly  of  me  to  forget." 

Weary  turned  his  gaze  to  the  hill  beyond  the  creek, 
and  fanned  his  hot  face  with  his  hat.  "  It  was  not.  It 
wasn't  at  that  dance,  at  all."  Funny  she  didn't  re- 
1  member  him!  He  suspected  her  of  trying  to  fool  nim. 
now  that  he  was  actually  in  her  presence,  and  he  re- 
fused absolutely  to  he  fooled. 

He  could  see  that  she  threw  out  her  hand  helplessly. 
"Well,  I  may  as  well  'fess  up.  I  don't  remember  you 
at  alL  It's  horrid  of  me,  when  you  rode  up  in  tha> 

26 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

lovely,  unconventional  way.  But  you  see,  at  dances 
one  doesn't  think  of  the  men  as  individuals;  they  're  just 
good  or  bad  partners.  It  resolves  itself,  you  see,  into 
a  question  of  feet.  If  I  should  dance  with  you  again 
— did  I  dance  with  you?" 

Weary  shot  a  quick,  eloquent  glance  in  her  direction. 
He  did  not  say  anything. 

Miss  Satterly  blushed.  "I  was  going  to  say,  if  I 
danced  with  you  again  I  should  no  doubt  remember 
you  perfectly." 

Weary  was  betrayed  into  a  smile.  "  If  I  could  dance 
in  these  boots,  I'd  take  off  my  spurs  and  try  and  identify 
myself.  But  I  guess  I'll  have  to  ask  yuh  to  take  my 
word  for  it  that  we're  acquainted." 

"Oh,  I  will.  I  meant  to,  all  along.  Why  aren't 
you  in  town,  celebrating?  I  thought  I  was  the  only 
unpatriotic  person  in  the  country." 

"I  just  came  from  town,"  Weary  told  her,  choosing 
his  words  carefully  while  yet  striving  to  be  truthful. 
No  man  likes  confessing  to  a  woman  that  he  has  been 
run  away  with.  "  I — er — broke  my  bridle-bit,  back  a 
few  miles"  (it  wao  fifteen,  if  it  were  a  rod)  "and  so  I 

27 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

rode  in  here  to  get  one  of  Joe's.  I  didn't  want  to 
bother  anybody,  but  Glory  seemed  to  think  this  was 
where  the  trail  ended." 

Miss  Satterly  laughed  again.  "It  certainly  was 
funny — you  trying  to  get  him  away,  and  being  so  still 
about  it.  I  heard  you  whispering  swear-words,  and  I 
wanted  to  scream!  I  just  couldn't  keep  still  any 
longer.  Is  he  balky?" 

"I  don't  know  what  he  is — now,"  said  Weary 
plaintively.  "He  was,  at  that  time.  He's  generally 
what  happens  to  be  the  most  dev — mean  under  the 
circumstances." 

"  Well,  maybe  he'll  consent  to  being  led  to  the  stable; 
he  looks  as  if  he  had  a  most  unmerciful  master!" 
(Weary,  being  perfectly  innocent,  blushed  guiltily) 
"  But  I'll  forgive  you  riding  him  like  that,  and  make  for 
you  a  pitcher  of  lemonade  and  give  you  some  cake 
while  he  rests.  You  certainly  must  not  ride  back  with 
him  so  tired." 

Fresh  lemonade  sounded  tempting,  after  that  ride. 
And  being  lectured  was  not  at  all  what  he  had  expected 
from  the  schoolma'am — and  who  can  fathom  the  mind 

28 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

of  a  man?  Weary  gave  her  one  complex  glance,  laid 
his  hand  upon  the  bridle  and  discovered  that  Glory, 
having  done  what  mischief  he  could,  was  disposed  to 
be  very  meek.  At  the  corral  gate  Weary  looked 
back. 

"At  dances,"  he  mused  aloud,  "one  doesn't  con- 
sider men  as  individuals — it's  merely  a  question  of 
feet.  She  took  me  for  a  train  robber;  and  I  danced 
with  her  about  forty  times,  that  night,  and  took  her 
over  to  supper  and  we  whacked  up  on  our  chicken 
salad  because  there  was  only  one  dish  for  the  two  of 
us — oh,  mamma!" 

He  pulled  off  the  saddle  with  a  preoccupied  air  and 
rubbed  Glory  down  mechanically.  After  that  he 
went  over  and  sat  down  on  the  oats1  box  and  smoked 
two  cigarettes  while  he  pondered  many  things. 

He  stood  up  and  thoughtfully  surveyed  himself, 
brushed  sundry  bright  sorrel  hairs  from  his  coat  sleeves, 
stooped  and  tried  to  pinch  creases  into  the  knees  of  his 
trousers,  which  showed  symptoms  of  "bagging."  He 
took  off  his  hat  and  polished  it  with  his  sleeve  he  had 
just  brushed  so  carefully,  pinched  four  big  dimples 

29 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

in  the  crown,  turned  it  around  three  times  for  critical 
inspection,  placed  it  upon  his  head  at  a  studiously 
unstudied  angle,  felt  anxiously  at  his  neck-gear  and 
slapped  Glory  affectionately  upon  the  rump — and 
canie  near  getting  kicked  into  eternity.  Then  he 
swung  off  up  the  path,  softly  whistling  "In  the  good, 
old  summer-time."  An  old  hen,  hovering  her  chicks 
in  the  shade  of  the  hay-rack,  eyed  him  distrustfully 
and  cried"  k-r-r-r-r/"  in  a  shocked  tone  that  sent  her 
chickens  burrowing  deeper  under  her  feathers. 

Miss  Satterly  had  changed  her  pink  kimono  for  a 
«vhite  shirt-waist  and  had  fluffed  her  hair  into  a  smooth 
coil  on  the  top  of  her  head.  Weary  thought  she  looked 
very  nice.  She  could  make  excellent  lemonade,  he 
discovered,  and  she  proved  herself  altogether  different 
from  what  the  messages  she  sent  him  had  led  him  to 
expect.  Weary  wondered,  until  he  became  too  inter- 
ested to  think  about  it. 

Presently,  without  quite  knowing  how  it  came  about, 
he  was  telling  her  all  about  the  race.  Miss  Satterly 
helped  him  reckon  his  winnings — which  was  not  easy 
to  do,  since  he  had  been  offered  all  sorts  of  odds  and 

30 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

had  accepted  them  all  with  a  recklessness  that  was 
appalling.  While  her  dark  head  was  bent  above  the 
piece  of  paper,  and  her  pencil  was  setting  down  figures 
with  precise  little  jabs,  he  watched  her.  He  quite 
forgot  the  messages  he  had  received  from  her  through 
the  medium  of  the  Happy  Family,  and  he  quite  forgot 
that  women  could  hurt  a  man. 

"Mr.  Davidson,"  she  announced  severely,  when  the 
figures  had  all  been  dabbed  upon  the  paper,  "You 
ought  to  have  lost.  It  would  be  a  lesson  to  you.  I 
haven't  quite  figured  all  your  winnings,  these  six-to- 
ones  and  ten-to-ones  and — and  all  that,  take  time  to 
unravel.  But  you,  yourself,  stood  to  lose  just  three 
hundred  and  sixty-five  dollars.  Gee!  but  you  cow- 
boys are  reckless." 

There  was  more  that  she  said,  but  Weary  did  not 
mind.  He  had  discovered  that  he  liked  to  look  at  the 
schoolma'am.  After  that,  nothing  else  was  of  much 
importance.  He  began  to  wish  he  might  prolong  his 
opportunity  for  looking. 

"Say,"  he  said  suddenly,  "Come  on  and  let's  go  to 
the  dance." 

31 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

The  schoolma'am  bit  at  her  pencil  and  looked  at 
him.  "It's  late— " 

"  Oh,  there's  time  enough,"  urged  Weary. 

"Maybe— but— " 

'Do  yuh  think  we  aren't  well  enough  acquainted?" 

"  Well  we're  not  exactly  old  friends,"  she  laughed. 

"We're  going  to  be,  so  it's  all  the  same,"  Weary 
surprised  himself  by  declaring  with  much  emphasis. 
"You'd  go,  wouldn't  you,  if  I  was — well,  say  your 
brother?" 

Miss  Satterly  rested  her  chin  in  her  palms  and  re- 
garded him  measuringly.  "I  don't  know.  I  never 
had  one — except  three  or  four  that  I — er — adopted, 
at  one  time  or  another.  I  suppose  one  could  go, 
though — with  a  brother." 

Weary  made  a  rapid,  mental  note  for  the  benefit  of 
the  Happy  Family — and  particularly  Cal  Emmett. 
"Dai  ^3  Brother"  was  a  myth,  then;  he  ought  tc 
frave  known  it,  all  along.  And  if  that  were  a  myth, 
so  probably  were  all  those  messages  and  things  that  he 
had  hated.  She  didn't  care  anything  about  him- 
and  suddenly  that  struck  him  unpleasantly,  instead 

12 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

of  being  a  relief,  as  it  consistently  should  have  been. 

"I  wish  you'd  adopt  me,  just  for  to-night,  and  go." 
he  said,  and  his  eyes  backed  the  wish.  "You  see,51 
tie  added  artfully,  "it's  a  sin  to  waste  all  that  good 
music — a  real,  honest-to-God  stringed  orchestra  from 
Great  Falls,  and—" 

"Meekers  have  taken  both  rigs,"  objected  she, 
weakly. 

"I  noticed  a  side  saddle  hanging  in  the  stable,"  he 
wheedled,  "and  I'll  gamble  I  can  rustle  something  to 
put  it  on.  I—" 

"I  should  think  you'd  gambled  enough  for  one  day, 
she  quelled.  "But  that  chunky  little  gray  in 
the  pasture  is  the  horse  I  always  ride.  I  ex- 
pect," she  sighed,  "my  new  dancing  dress 
would  be  a  sight  to  behold  when  I  got  there—- 
and it  won't  wash.  But  what  does  a  mere  mai* 
:are— » 

"  Wrap  it  up  in  something,  and  I'll  carry  it  for  yuh,* 
Weary  advised  eagerly.  "You  can  change  at  the 
hotel.  It's  dead  easy."  He  picked  up  his  hat  from 
the  floor,  rose  and  stood  looking  anxiously  down  at 

33 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

her.    "About  how  soon,"  he  insinuated,  "can  you  be 
ready?" 

The  schoolma'am  looked  up  at  him  irresolutely, 
drew  a  long  breath  and  then  laughed.  "Oh,  ten 
minutes  will  do,"  she  surrendered.  "I  shall  put  my 
new  dress  in  a  box,  and  go  just  as  I  am.  Do  you 
always  get  your  own  way,  Mr.  Davidson?" 

"Always,"  he  lied  convincingly  over  his  shoulder, 
and  jumped  off  the  porch  without  bothering  to  use  the 
steps. 

She  was  waiting  when  he  led  the  little  gray  up  to 
the  house,  and  she  came  down  the  steps  with  a  large, 
flat,  pasteboard  box  in  her  arms. 

"Don't  get  off,"  she  commanded.  "I  can  mount 
alone — and  you'll  have  to  carry  the  box.  It's  going 
to  be  awkward,  but  you  would  have  me  go." 

Weary  took  the  box  and  prudently  remained  in  the 
saddle.  Glory,  having  the  man  he  did  for  master^ 
was  unused  to  the  flutter  of  women's  skirts  so  close, 
and  rolled  his  eyes  till  the  whites  showed  all  round. 
Moreover,  he  was  not  satisfied  with  that  big,  white 
thing  in  Weary's  arms. 

34 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

He  stood  quite  still,  however,  until  the  schoolma'am 
was  settled  to  her  liking  in  the  saddle,  and  had  tucked 
her  skirt  down  over  the  toe  of  her  right  foot.  He 
watched  the  proceeding  with  much  interest — as  did 
Weary — and  then  walked  sedately  from  the  yard, 
through  the  pebbly  creek  *oid  up  the  slope  beyond. 
He  heard  Weary  give  a  sigh  of  relief  at  his  docility, 
and  straightway  thrust  his  nof  ^  between  his  white 
front  feet,  and  proceeded  to  carry  out  certain  little 
plans  of  his  own.  Weary,  taken  by  surprise  and  en- 
cumbered by  the  box,  could  not  argue  the  point;  he 
could  only,  in  range  parlance,  "hang  and  rattle." 

"Oh,"  cried  Miss  Satterly,  "if  he's  going  to  act  like 
that,  give  me  the  box." 

Weary  would  like  to  have  done  so,  but  already  he 
was  half  way  to  the  gate,  and  his  coat  was  standing 
straight  out  behind  to  prove  the  speed  of  his  flight. 
He  could  not  even  look  back.  He  just  hung  tight  to 
die  box  and  rode. 

The  little  gray  was  no  racer,  but  his  wind  was  good, 
and  with  urging  he  kept  the  fleeing  Glory  in  sight  for  a 
mile  or  so.  Then,  horse  and  rider  were  briefly  sil« 

35 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

hoi/etted  against  the  sunset  as  they  topped  a  distant 
hill,  and  after  that  the  schoolma'am  rode  by  faith. 

Ai  the  gate  which  led  into  the  big,  Flying  U  field 
she  overtook  them.  Glory,  placid  as  a  sheep,  was 
nibbling  a  frayed  end  of  the  rope  which  held  the  gate 
shut,  and  Weary,  the  big  box  balanced  in  front  of  him 
across  the  saddle,  was  smoking  a  cigarette. 

"Well,"  greeted  Miss  Satterly  breathlessly,  and  rather 
tartly,  "only  for  you  Laving  my  dress,  I'd  have  gone 
straight  back  home.  Do  brothers  always  act  like  this  ?" 

"  Search  me,"  said  Weary,  shaking  his  head.  "  Any- 
way, yuh  better  talk  to  Glory  about  it.  He  appears  to 
be  running  this  show.  When  I  rode  out  to  your  place,  I 
didn't  have  any  bit  in  his  mouth  at  all.  Coming  back, 
I've  got  one  of  Joe  Meeker's  teething  rings,  that 
wouldn't  hold  a  pet  turkey.  But  we're  going  to  the 
dance,  Miss  Satterly.  Don't  you  worry  none  about 
that" 

Miss  Satterly  laughed  and  rode  ahead  of  them. 
*  I'm  going,"  she  announced  firmly.  "It's  leap  year, 
and  I  think  I  can  rustle  a  partner  if  you  decide  to  sit 
and  look  through  that  gate  all  night." 

36 


The     Lonesome     Trait 

"You'll  need  your  pretty  dress.  Glory  ain't  much 
used  to  escorting  young  ladies,  but  he's  a  gentleman;' 
we're  coming,  all  right." 

It  was  strange,  perhaps,  that  Glory  should  miss  the 
chance  of  proving  his  master  a  liar,  but  he  neverthe- 
less ambled  decorously  to  Dry  Lake  and  did  nothing 
more  unseemly  than  nipping  occasionally  at  the  neck 
of  the  little  gray. 

That  is  how  Weary  learned  that  large,  brown  eyes 
do  not  look  sidelong  at  a  man  after  the  manner  of 
long,  heavy-lidded  blue  ones;  and  that,  also,  is  how  he 
came  to  throw  up  his  head  and  deny  to  himself  and 
his  worW  that  he  ever  was  shv  of  women. 


PART  TWO 

Weary  rode  stealthily  around  the  corner  of  the  little, 
frame  school-house  and  was  not  disappointed.  The 
schoolma'am  was  sitting  unconventionally  upon  the 
doorstep,  her  shoulder  turned  to  him  and  her  face 
turned  to  the  trail  by  which  a  man  naturally  would  be 
supposed  to  approach  the  place.  Her  hair  was  shining 
darkly  in  the  sun  and  the  shorter  locks  were  blowing 
about  her  face  in  a  downright  tantalizing  fashion;  they 
made  a  man  want  to  brush  them  back  and  kiss  the  spot 
they  were  caressing  so  wantonly.  She  was  humming 
a  tune  softly  to  herself.  Weary  caught  the  words,  sung 
absently,  under  her  breath: 

"Didn't  make  no  blunder — yuh  couldn't  confuse  him. 
A  perfect  wonder,  yuh  had  to  choose  him/" 

The  schoolma'am  was  addicted  to  coon  songs  of  the 
period. 

She  seemed  to  be  very  busy  about  something  and 
Weary,  craning  his  neck  to  see  over  her  shoulder. 

38 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

wondered  what.  Also,  he  wished  he  knew  what  she 
was  thinking  about,  and  he  hoped  her  thoughts  were 
not  remote  from  himself.  Just  then  Glory  showed 
unmistakable  and  malicious  intentions  of  sneezing,  and 
Weary,  catching  a  glimpse  of  something  in  Miss  Satter- 
!y's  hand,  hastened  to  make  his  presence  known. 

"I  hope  yuh  aren't  limbering  up  that  weapon  of 
destruction  on  my  account,  Schoolma'am,"  he  ob- 
served mildly. 

The  schoolma'am  jumped  and  slid  something  out 
of  sight  under  her  ruffled,  white  apron.  "Weary 
Davidson,  how  long  have  you  been  standing  there? 
I  believe  you'd  come  straight  down  from  the  sky  or 
straight  up  from  the  ground,  if  you  could  manage  it. 
You  seem  capable  of  doing  everything  except  coming 
by  the  trail  like  a  sensible  man."  This  with  severity. 

Weary  swung  a  long  leg  over  Glory's  back  and  came 
lightly  to  earth,  immediately  taking  possession  of  the 
(/acant  half  of  doorstep.  The  schoolma'am  obligingly 
drew  skirts  aside  to  make  room  for  him — an  incon- 
sistent movement  not  at  all  in  harmony  with  her  eye- 
brows, which  were  disapproving. 

39 


The     Lonesome     Trai  1 

"  Yuh  don't  like  ordinary  men.  Yuh  said  so,  o*  -ee 
when  I  said  I  was  just  a  plain,  ordinary  man.  I've 
sworn  off  being  ordinary  since  yuh  gave  me  that  tip;" 
he  said  cheerfully.  "Let's  have  a  look  at  that  cannon 
you're  hiding  under  your  apron.  Wheie  did  yuh 
resurrect  it?  Out  of  some  old  Indian  grave? 

"Mamma!  It  won't  go  off  sudden  and  unexpected, 
will  it?  What  kind  uh  shells — oh,  mamma!"  He 
pushed  his  hat  back  off  his  forehead  with  a  gesture 
not  left  behind  with  his  boyhood,  held  the  object  the 
length  of  his  long  arm  away  and  regarded  it  gravely. 

It  was  an  old,  old  " bull-dog"  revolver,  freckled  with 
rust  until  it  bore  a  strong  resemblance  to  certain  nose? 
which  Miss  Satterly  looked  down  upon  daily.  The 
cylinder  was  plugged  with  rolls  of  drab  cotton  cloth, 
supposedly  in  imitation  of  real  bullets.  It  was  obvious- 
ly during  the  plugging  process  that  Miss  Satterly  had 
been  interrupted,  for  a  drab  string  hung  limply  froir 
one  hole.  On  the  whole,  the  thing  did  not  look  par 
rticularly  formidable,  and  Weary's  lips  twitched. 

"A  tramp  stopped  here  the  other  day,  and — I  was 
frightened  a  little,"  she  was  explaining,  pink-cheeked 

40 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

"So  aunt  Meeker  found  this  up  in  the  loft  and  shr 
thought  it  would  do  to — to  bluff  with." 

Weary  aimed  carefully  at  a  venturesome  and  highly 
inquisitive  gopher  and  pulled,  with  some  effort,  the 
rusted  trigger.  The  gopher  stood  upon  his  hind  feet 
and  chipped  derisively. 

"You  see,  it  just  insults  him.  Yuh  could 'nt  scare 
a  blind  man  with  it —  Look  here!  If  yuh  go  pouting 
up  your  lips  like  that  again,  something's  going  to  happen 
*em.  There's  a  limit  to  what  a  man  can  stand." 

Miss  Satterly  hastily  drew  her  mouth  into  a  thin, 
untempting,  red  streak,  for  she  had  not  seen  Weary 
Davidson,  on  an  average,  twice  a  week  for  the  last  four 
months  for  nothing.  He  was  not  the  man  to  bluff. 

"Of  course,"  she  said  resentfully,  "yon  can  make 
fun  of  it — but  all  the  same,  it's  better  than  nothing. 
It  answers  the  purpose." 

Weary  turned  his  head  till  he  could  look  straight  into 
her  eyes — a  thing  he  seemed  rather  fond  of  doing,  late- 
ly.    "What  purpose?    It  sure   isn't  ornamental;   it's. 
a  little  the  hardest  locker  I  ever  saw  in  the  shape  of  * 
gun.     And  it  won't  scare  anything.     If  you  want  a  gun, 

41 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

why,  take  one  that  can  make  good.  You  can  have 
mine;  just  watch  what  a  different  effect  it  has." 

He  reached  backward  and  drew  a  shining  thing 
from  his  pocket,  flipped  it  downward — and  the  effect 
was  unmistakably  different.  The  gopher  leaped  and 
rolled  backward  and  then  lay  still,  and  Miss  Satterly 
gave  a  little,  startled  scream  and  jumped  quite  off  the 
doorstep. 

"Don't  yuh  see?  You  couldn't  raise  any  such  a 
dust  with  yours.  If  yuh  pack  a  gun,  you  always  want 
to  pack  one  that's  ready  and  willing  to  do  business  on 
short  notice.  I'll  let  yuh  have  this,  if  you're  sure 
it's  safe  with  yuh.  I'd  hate  to  have  you  shooting  your- 
self accidental." 

Weary  raised  innocent  eyes  to  her  face  and  polished 
the  gun  caressingly  with  his  handkerchief.  "Try  it 
once,"  he  urged. 

The  schoolma'am  was  fond  of  boasting  that  she 
never  screamed  at  anything.  She  had  screamed  just 
now,  over  a  foolish  little  thing,  and  it  goes  without 
saying  she  was  angry  with  the  cause.  She  did  not  sit 
down  again  beside  him,  and  she  did  not  take  the  gun 

42 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

he  was  holding  up  invitingly  to  her.  She  put  her  hands 
behind  her  and  stood  accusingly  before  him  with  the 
look  upon  her  face  which  never  failed  to  make  sundry 
small  Beckmans  and  Pilgreens  squirm  on  their  benches 
when  she  assumed  it  in  school. 

"Mr.  Davidson" — not  Weary  Davidson,  as  she  was 
wont  to  call  him — "you  have  killed  my  pet  gopher. 
All  summer  I  have  fed  him,  and  he  would  eat  out  of 
my  hand." 

Weary  cast  a  jealous  eye  upon  the  limp,  little  animal, 
searched  his  heart  for  remorse  and  found  none.  Ornery 
little  brute,  to  get  familiar  with  his  schoolma'am! 

"I  did  not  think  you  could  be  so  wantonly  cruel, 
and  I  am  astonished  and — and  deeply  pained  to  dis- 
cover that  fatal  flaw  in  your  character." 

Weary  began  to  squirm,  after  the  manner  of  delin- 
quent Beckmans  and  Pilgreens.  One  thing  he  had 
learned:  When  the  schoolma'am  rose  to  irreproachable 
English,  there  was  trouble  a-brew.  It  was  a  sign  he 
had  never  known  to  fail. 

"I  cannot  understand  the  depraved  instinct  which 
prompts  a  man  brutally  to  destroy  a  life  ke  cannot 

43 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

restore,  and  which  in  no  way  menaces  his  own — or 
even  interferes  with  his  comfort.  You  may  apologize 
to  me;  you  may  even  be  sincerely  repentant" — the 
schoolma'am's  tone  at  this  point  implied  considerable 
doubt — "but  you  are  powerless  to  return  the  life  you 
have  so  heedlessly  taken.  You  have  revealed  a  low, 
brutal  trait  which  I  had  hoped  your  nature  could  not 
harbor,  and  I  am — am  deeply  shocked  and — and 
grieved." 

Just  here  a  tiny,  dry-weather  whirlwind  swept  a- 
round  the  corner,  caught  ruffled,  white  apron  and  blue 
skirt  in  its  gyrations  and,  pushing  them  wickedly  aside, 
gave  Weary  a  brief,  delicious  glimpse  of  two  small, 
slippered  feet  and  two  distracting  ankles.  The  school- 
ma'am  blushed  and  retreated  to  the  doorstep,  but  she 
did  not  sit  down.  She  still  stood  straight  and  dis- 
p)  eased  beside  him.  Evidently  she  was  still  shocked 
and  grieved. 

Weary  tipped  his  head  to  one  side  so  that  he  might 
look  up  at  her  from  under  his  hat-brim.  "  I'll  get  yuh 
another  gopher;  six,  if  yuh  say  so,"  he  soothed.  "The 
woods  is  full  of  'em." 

44 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

The  angry,  brown  eyes  of  Miss  Satterly  swept  the 
barren  hills  contemptuously.  She  would  not  even 
look  at  him.  "Pray  do  not  inconvenience  yourself, 
Mr.  Davidson.  It  is  not  the  gopher  that  I  care  for  so 
much — it  is  the  principle. " 

Weary  sighed  and  slid  the  gun  back  into  his  pocket. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  Miss  Satterly,  adorable  as  she 
always  was,  was  also  rather  unreasonable  at  times. 
"  All  right,  I'll  get  yuh  another  principle,  then." 

"Mr.  Davidson,"  she  said  sternly,  "you  are  perfect- 
ly odious!" 

"Is  that  something  nice,  Girlie?"  Wenry  smiled 
trustfully  up  at  her. 

"Odious,"  explained  the  schoolma'am  haughtily, 
"is  not  something  nice.  I'm  sorry  your  education  has 
been  so  neglected.  Odious,  Mr.  Davidson,  Is  a  syno- 
nym for  hateful,  obnoxious,  repulsive,  disagreeable, 
despicable — " 

"I  never  did  like  cinnamon,  anyhow,"  put  in  Weary, 
cheerfully. 

"I  did  not  mention  cinnamon.    I  said — " 

"Say,  yuh  look  out  uh  sight  with  your  hair  fixed 
45 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

that  way.  I  wish  you'd  wear  it  like  that  all  the  time," 
he  observed  irrelevantly,  looking  up  at  her  with  his 
sunniest  smile. 

"I  wish  to  goodness  I  were  really  out  of  sight, " 
snapped  the  schoolma'am.  "You  make  me  exceed- 
ingly weary. " 

''Mrs.  Weary,"  corrected  he,  complacently.  "That's 
what  I'm  sure  aiming  at." 

"You  aim  wide  of  the  mark,  then,"  she  retorted 
valiantly,  though  confusion  waved  a  red  flag  in  either 
cheek. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  A  minute  ago  you  were  roast- 
ing me  because  my  aim  was  too  good,"  he  contended 
mildly,  glancing  involuntarily  toward  the  gopher 
stretched  upon  its  little,  yellow  back,  its  four  small 
feet  turned  pitifully  up  to  the  blue. 

"If  you  had  an  atom  of  decency  you'd  be  ashamed 
to  mention  that  tribute  to  your  diabolical  marksman- 
ship." 

"Oh, mamma! "ejaculated Weary  under  his  breath, 
and  began  to  make  himself  a  smoke.  His  guar- 
dian angel  was  exhorting  him  to  silence,  but 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

it  preached,  as  usual,  to  unsentient  ears, 
"/  never  mentioned  all  those  things,"  he  denied 
meekly.  "  It's  you  that  keeps  on  mentioning.  I  wish 
yuh  wouldn't.  I  like  to  hear  you  talk,  all  right,  and 
flop  all  those  big  words  easy  as  roping  a  calf;  but  I 
wish  you'd  let  me  choose  your  subject  for  yuh.  I 
could  easy  name  one  where  you  could  use  words  just 
as  high  and  wide  and  handsome,  and  a  heap  more 
pleasant  than  the  brand  you've  got  corralled.  Try 
admiration  and  felicitation  and  exhilarating,  ecstatic 
osculation — "  He  stopped  to  run  the  edge  of  paper 
along  his  tongue,  and  perhaps  it  was  as  well  he  did; 
there  was  no  need  of  making  her  any  angrier.  Miss 
Satterly  hated  to  feel  that  she  was  worsted,  and  it  was 
quite  clear  that  Weary  had  all  along  been  "guying" 
her. 

4 'If  you  came  here  to  make  me  hate  you,  you  have 
accomplished  your  errand  admirably;  it  would  be 
advisable  now  for  you  to  hike." 

Weary,  struck  by  that  incongruous  last  word,  did  an 
unforgivable  thing.  He  laughed  and  laughed,  while 
the  match  he  had  just  lighted  flared,  sent  up  a  blue 

47 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

thread  }f  brimstone  smoke,  licked  along  the  white 
wood  and  scorched  his  fingers  painfully  before  he  re- 
membered his  ciga  ette. 

Miss  Satterly  turned  abruptly  and  went  into  the 
house,  put  on  her  hat  and  took  up  the  little,  tin  lard- 
pail  in  which  her  aunt  Meeker  always  packed  her 
lunch.  She  was  back,  had  the  key  turned  in  the  lock 
and  was  slowly  pulling  on  her  gloves  by  the  time  Wearv 
recovered  from  his  mirth. 

'Since  you  will  not  leave  the  place,  I  shall  do  so. 
I  want  to  say  first,  however,  that  I  not  only  think  you 
odious,  but  all  the  synonyms  I  mentioned  besides. 
You  need  not  come  for  me  to  go  to  the  Labor  Day 
dance,  because  I  will  not  go  with  you.  I  shall  go  with 
Joe." 

Weary  gave  her  a  startled  glance  and  almost  dropped 
his  cigarette.  This  seemed  going  rather  far,  he  thought 
— but  of  course  she  didn't  really  mean  it;  the  school- 
ma'am,  he  heartened  himself  with  thinking,  was  an 
awful,  little  bluffer. 

"Don't  go  off  mad,  Girlie.  I'm  sorry  I  killed  your 
gopher — on  the  dead,  I  am.  I  jus*  didn't  think, 

48 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

That's       a       habit       I've        got — not        thinking. 

"Say!  You  stay,  and  we'll  have  a  funeral.  It 
isn't  every  common,  scrub  gopher  that  can  have  a  real 
funeral  with  mourners  and  music  when  he  goes  over 
the  Big  Divide.  He — he'll  appreciate  the  honor;  / 
would,  I  know,  if  it  was  me." 

The  schoolma'am  took  a  few  steps  and  stopped, 
evidently  in  some  difficulty  with  her  glove.  From  the 
look  of  her,  no  human  being  was  within  a  mile  of  her; 
she  certainly  did  not  seem  to  hear  anything  Weary 
was  saying. 

"  Say!  I'll  sing  a  song  over  him,  if  you'll  wait  a  minute. 
I  know  two  whole  verses  of '  Bill  Bailey,'  and  the  chorus 
to  '  Good  Old  Summertime.'  I  can  shuffle  the  two 
together  and  make  a  full  deck.  I  believe  they'd  go 
fine  together. 

"Say,  you  never  heard  me  sing,  did  yuh?  It's 
worth  waiting  for — only  yuh  want  to  hang  tight  tc 
something  when  I  start.  Come  on — I'll  let  you  be 
the  mourner." 

Since  Miss  Satterly  had  been  taking  steps  quite 
regularly  while  Weary  was  speaking,  she  was  now 

49 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

several  rods  away — and  she  had,  more  than  ever,  the 
appearance  of  not  hearing  him  and  of  not  wanting  to 
hear. 

''Say,  Tee-e-cher!" 

The  schoolma'am  refused  to  stop,  or  to  turn  her 
head  a  fraction  of  an  inch,  and  Weary's  face  sobered  a 
little.  It  was  the  first  ti  me  that  inimitable  "Tee-e-cher" 
of  his  had  failed  to  bring  the  smile  back  into  the 
eyes  of  Miss  Satterly.  He  looked  after  her  dubiously. 
Her  shoulders  were  thrown  well  back  and  her  feet 
pressed  their  imprint  firmly  into  the  yellow  dust  of 
the  trail.  In  a  minute  she  would  be  quite  out  of 
hearing. 

Weary  got  up,  took  a  step  and  grasped  Glory's 
trailing  bridle-rein  and  hurried  after  her  much  faster 
than  Glory  liked  and  which  he  reproved  with  stiffened 
knees  and  a  general  pulling  back  on  the  reins. 

"Say!  You  would'nt  get  mad  at  a  little  thing  like 
that  would  yuh?"  expostulated  Weary,  when  he  over- 
took her.  "  You  know  I  didn't  mean  anything,  Girlie." 

"  I  do  not  consider  it  a  little  thing,"  said  the  school- 
ma'am,  icily. 

50 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

Thus  rebuffed,  Weary  walked  silently  beside  her  up 
the  hill — silently,  that  is,  save  for  the  subdued  jingling 
of  his  spurs.  He  was  beginning  to  realize  that  there 
was  an  uncomfortable,  heavy  feeling  in  his  chest,  on 
the  side  where  his  heart  was.  Still,  he  was  of  a  hopeful 
nature  and  presently  tried  again. 

"How  many  times  must  I  say  I'm  sorry,  School- 
ma'am?  You  don't  look  so  pretty  when  you're  mad; 
you've  got  dimples,  remember,  and  yuh  ought  to  give 
'em  a  chance.  Let's  sit  down  on  this  rock  while  I 
square  myself.  Come  on."  His  tone  was  wheedling 
in  the  extreme. 

Miss  Satterly,  not  replying  a  word,  kept  straight  on 
up  the  hill;  and  Weary,  sighing  heavily,  followed. 

"Don't  you  want  to  ride  Glory  a  ways?  He's  real 
good,  to-day.  He  put  in  the  whole  of  yesterday  work- 
ing out  all  the  cussedness  that's  been  accumulating  in 
his  system  for  a  week,  so  he's  dead  gentle.  I'll  lead 
him,  for  yuh." 

•'     "Thank  you,"    said  Miss  Satterly.     "I  prefer   to 
walk." 

Weary  sighed  again,  but  clung  to  his  general  hope« 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

fulness,  as  was  his  nature.  It  took  a  great  deal  to 
rouse  Weary;  perhaps  the  schoolma'am  was  trying  to 
find  just  how  much. 

"  Say,  you'd  a  died  laughing  if  you'd  seen  old  Glory 
yesterday;  he  liked  to  scared  Slim  plumb  to  death. 
We  were  working  in  the  big  corral  and  Slim  got  down 
on  one  knee  to  fix  his  spur.  Glory  saw  him  kneel 
down,  and  gave  a  running  jump  and  went  clear  over 
Slim's  head.  Slim  hit  for  the  closest  fence,  and  he 
never  looked  back  till  he  was  clean  over  on  the  other 
side.  Mamma!  I  was  sure  amused.  I  thought  Glory 
had  done  about  everything  there  was  to  do — but 
I  tell  yuh,  that  horse  has  got  an  imagination  that  will 
make  him  famous  some  day." 

For  the  first  time  since  the  day  of  his  spectacular  intro- 
duction to  her,  Miss  Satterly  displayed  absolutely  no  in- 
terest in  the  eccentricities  of  Glory.  Slowly  it  began  to 
dawn  upon  Weary  that  she  did  not  intend  to  thaw  that 
evening.  He  glanced  at  her  sidelong,  and  his  eyes  had  a 
certain  gleam  that  was  not  there  five  minutes  before.  He 
swung  along  beside  her  till  they  reached  the  top  of 
the  hill,  fell  behind  without  a  word  and  mounted  Glory. 

52 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

When  he  overtook  Miss  Satterly,  he  lifted  his  hat 
to  her  nonchalantly,  touched  up  Glory  with  his  spurs, 
and  clattered  away  down  the  coulee,  leaving  the  school- 
ma'am  in  a  haze  of  yellow  dust  and  bewilderment  fa* 
in  the  rear. 

The  next  morning  Miss  Satterly  went  very  early  to 
the  school-house — for  what  purpose  she  did  not  say. 
A  meadow-lark  on  the  doorstep  greeted  her  with  his 
short,  sweet  ripple  of  sound  and  then  flew  to  a  nearby 
sage  bush  and  watched  her  curiously.  She  looked 
about  her  half  expectant,  half  disappointed. 

A  little,  fresh  mound  marked  the  spot  where  the 
dead  gopher  had  been,  and  a  narrow  strip  of  shingle 
stood  upright  at  the  end.  Someone  had  scratched  the 
word?  witb  a  knife: 

GONE  BUT  NOT  FORGOT. 

Probably  the  last  word  would  have  been  given  its  fuU 
complement  of  syllables,  had  the  shingle  been  widert 
as  it  was,  the  "forgot"  was  cramped  until  it  was  barely 
intelligible. 

Miss  Satterly,  observing  the  mark  of  high-heeled 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

boots  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  grave,  caugh* 
herself  wondering  if  the  remains  had  been  laid  a^  iy  to 
the  tune  of  "Bill  Bailey,"  with  the  chorus  of  "  jood 
t)ld  Summertime"  shuffled  in  to  make  a  full  Jeck* 
She  started  to  laugh  and  found  that  laughter  wa,  quite 
impossible. 

Suddenly  the  schoolma'am  did  a  strange  iiing. 
She  glanced  about  to  make  sure  no  one  was  ir,  sight, 
knelt  and  patted  the  tiny  mound  very  tenderly:  then, 
stooping  quickly,  she  pressed  her  lips  impulsively 
upon  the  rude  lettering  of  the  shingle.  Wbai  she 
sprang  up  her  cheeks  were  very  red,  her  eyes  dewy 
and  lovely,  and  the  little  laugh  she  gave  at  herself 
was  all  atremble.  If  lovers  could  be  summoned  as 
opportunely  in  real  life  as  they  are  in  stories,  hearts 
would  not  ache  so  often  and  life  would  be  quite  monot- 
onously serene. 

Weary  was  at  that  moment  twenty  miles  away: 
Dusily  engaged  in  chastising  Glory,  that  had  refused 
point-blank  to  cross  a  certain  washout.  His 
mind  being  wholly  absorbed  in  the  argument  he  was 
not  susceptible  to  telepathic  messages  fron? 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

the     Meeker     school-house — which     was     a      pity. 

Also,  it  was  a  pity  he  could  not  know  that  Miss 
Satterly  lingered  late  at  the  school-house  that  night, 
doing  nothing  but  watch  the  trail  where  it  lay,  browr 
and  distinct  and  utterly  deserted,  on  the  top  of  the  hilj 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  away.  It  is  true  she  had  artfulty 
scattered  a  profusion  of  papers  over  her  desk  and 
would  undoubtedly  have  been  discovered  hard  at  work 
upon  them  and  very  much  astonished  at  beholding  him 
— if  he  had  come.  It  is  probable  that  Weary  would 
have  found  her  quite  unapproachable,  intrenched 
behind  a  bulwark  of  dignity  and  correct  English. 

When  the  shadow  of  the  schoolhouse  stretched 
somberly  away  to  the  very  edge  of  the  coulee,  Miss 
Satterly  gathered  up  the  studied  confusion  on  her 
desk,  bundled  the  papers  inside,  and  turned  the  key 
with  a  snap,  jabbed  three  hatpins  viciously  through 
her  hat  and  her  hair  and  went  home — and  perhaps  it 
were  well  that  Weary  was  not  there  at  that  time. 

The  next  night,  papers  strewed  the  desk  as  before, 
and  the  schoolma'am  stood  by  the  window,  her  elbows 
planted  on  the  unpainted  sill,  and  watched  the  trail 

55 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

listlessly.  Her  eyes  were  big  and  wistful,  like  a  hurt 
child's,  and  her  cheeks  were  not  red  as  usual,  nor  even 
pink.  But  the  trail  lay  again  brown,  and  silent,  and 
lonesome,  with  no  quick  hoof-beats  to  send  the  dust 
swirling  up  in  a  cloud. 

The  shadows  flowed  into  the  coulee  until  it  was  full 
to  the  brim  and  threatening  the  golden  hilltop  with  a 
brown  veil  of  shade  before  Miss  Satterly  locked  her 
door  and  went  home.  When  she  reached  her  aunt 
Meeker's  she  did  not  want  any  supper  and  she  said  her 
head  ached.  But  that  was  not  quite  true;  it  was  not 
her  head  that  ached  so  much;  it  was  her  heart. 

The  third  day,  the  schoolma'am  fussed  a  long  time 
with  her  hair,  which  she  did  in  four  different  styles. 
The  last  style  was  the  one  which  Weary  had  pronounced 
"out  uh  sight" — only  she  added  a  white  chiffon  bow 
which  she  had  before  kept  sacred  to  dances  and  which 
Weary  always  admired.  At  noofi  she  encouraged  the 
children  to  gather  wild  flowers  from  the  coulee,  and 
she  filled  several  tin  cans  with  water  from  the  spring 
and  arranged  the  bouquets  with  much  care.  Weary 
loved  flowers.  Nearly  every  time  he  came  he  had  a 

56 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

little  bunch  stuck  under  his  hat-band.  A  few  she  put 
in  her  hair,  along  with  the  chiffon  bow.  She  urged 
the  children  through  their  work  and  dismissed  them  at 
eleven  minutes  to  four  and  told  them  to  go  straight 
home. 

After  she  had  swept  the  floor  and  dusted  every- 
thing that  could  be  dusted  so  that  the  school-room  had 
the  peculiar,  immaculate  emptiness  and  forlornness, 
like  a  church  on  a  week  day,  and  had  taken  a  few  of 
the  brightest  flowers  and  pinned  them  upon  her  white 
shirt-waist,  Miss  Satterly  tuned  her  guitar  in  minor 
and  went  out  and  sat  upon  the  shady  doorstep  and 
waited  frankly,  strumming  plaintive  little  airs  while 
she  watched  the  trail.  To-morrow  was  Labor  Day, 
and  so  he  would  certainly  ride  over  to-night  to  see  if 
she  had  really  meant  it  (Miss  Satterly  did  not  explain 
to  herself  what  "it"  was;  surely,  there  was  no  need). 

At  half-past  five — Miss  Satterly  had  looked  at  her 
watch  seventeen  times  during  the  interval — a  tiny 
doud  of  dust  rose  over  the  brow  of  the  hill,  and  her 
heart  danced  in  her  chest  until  she  could  scarce  breathe. 

The  cloud  grew  and  grew  and  began  drifting  down 
57 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

the  trail,  and  behind  it  a  black  something  rose  over 
die  hilltop  and  followed  it,  so  proclaiming  itself  a 
horseman  galloping  swiftly  towards  her.  The  color 
spread  from  the  schoolma'am's  cheeks  to  her  brow  and 
throat.  Her  fingers  forgot  their  cunning  and  plucked 
harrowing  discords  from  the  strings,  but  her  lips  were 
parted  and  smiling  tremulously.  It  was  late — she  had 
almost  given  up  looking — but  he  was  coming!  She 
knew  he  would  come.  Coming  at  a  breakneck  pace- 
he  must  be  pretty  anxious,  too.  The  schooima'am 
recovered  a  bit  of  control  and  revolved  in  her  mind 
several  pert  forms  of  greeting.  She  would  not  be  too 
ready  to  forgive  him — it  would  do  him  good  to  keep 
him  anxious  and  uncertain  for  a  while  before  she  gave 
in. 

Now  he  was  near  the  place  where  he  would  turn  off 
the  main  road  and  gallop  straight  to  her.  Glory  al- 
ways made  that  turn  of  his  own  accord,  lately.  Weary 
had  told  her,  last  Sunday,  how  he  could  never  get 
Glory  past  that  turn,  any  more,  without  a  fight,  no 
matter  what  might  be  the  day  or  the  hour. 

Now  he  would  swing  into  the  school-house  trail 

58 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

Miss  Satterly  raised  both  hands  with  a  very  feminine 
gesture  and  patted  her  hair  tentatively,  tucking  in  a 
stray  lock  here  and  there. 

Her  hands  dropped  heavily  to  her  lap,  just  as  the 
blood  dropped  away  from  her  cheeks  and  the  happy 
glow  dulled  in  her  eyes.  It  was  not  Weary.  It  was 
the  Swede  who  worked  for  Jim  Adams  and  who  rode  a 
sorrel  horse  which,  at  a  distance,  resembled  Glory. 

Mechanically  she  watched  him  go  on  down  the  trail 
and  out  of  sight;  picked  up  her  guitar  which  had  grown 
suddenly  heavy,  crept  inside  and  dosed  the  door 
and  locked  It.  She  looked  around  the  clean,  eerily 
silent  schoolroom,  walked  with  echoing  steps  to  the 
desk  and  laid  her  head  down  among  the  cans  of  sweet- 
smelling,  prairie  flowers  and  cried  softly,  in  a  tired, 
heartbreaking  fashion  that  made  her  throat  ache,  and 
her  head. 

The  shadows  had  flowed  over  the  coulee-rim  and 
(he  hilltops  were  smothered  in  gloom  when  Miss  Sat- 
terly went  home  that  night,  and  her  aunt  Meeker  sent 
her  straight  to  bed  and  dosed  her  with  horrible  home 
«*medies. 

59 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

By  morning  she  had  recovered  her  spirit — her  re- 
vengeful spirit,  which  she  kept  as  the  hours  wore  on 
and  Weary  did  not  come.  She  would  teach  him  a 
lesson,  she  told  herself  often.  By  evening,  however, 
her  mood  softened.  There  were  many  things  that 
could  have  kept  him  away  against  his  will;  he  was  not 
his  own  master,  and  it  was  shipping  time.  Probably 
he  had  been  out  with  the  roundup,  or  something.  She 
decided  that  petty  revenge  is  unwomanly  besides  giving 
evidence  of  a  narrow  mind  and  shallow,  and  if  Weary 
could  show  a  good  and  sufficient  reason  for  staying 
away  like  that  when  there  were  matters  to  be  settled 
between  them,  she  would  not  be  petty  and  mean  about 
it;  she  would  be  divine — and  forgive. 


FART  THREE 

Weary  was  standing  pensively  by  the  door,  debating 
with  himself  the  advisability  of  going  boldly  over  and 
claiming  the  first  waltz  with  the  schoolma'am — and 
taking  a  chance  on  being  refused — when  Cal  Emmett 
gave  him  a  vicious  poke  in  the  ribs  by  way  of  securing 
his  attention. 

"Do  yuh  see  that  bunch  uh  red  loco  over  there  by 
the  organ  ?  "  he  wanted  to  know.  "  That's  Bert  Rogers' 
cousin  from  Iowa." 

Weary  looked  and  wilted  against  the  wall.  "Oh, 
Mamma!"  he  gasped. 

"Ain't  she  a  peach?  There'll  be  more  than  one 
pair  uh  hands  go  into  the  air  to-night.  It's  a  good 
thing  Len  got  the  drop  on  me  first  or  I'd  be  making 
seven  kinds  of  a  fool  uh  myself,  chances  is.  Bert 
says  she's  bad  medicine — a  man -killer  from  away  back. 

"Say,  she's  giving  us  the  bad-eye.     Don't  rubber 


6l 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

like  that,  Weary;  it  ain't  good  manners,  and  besides* 
the  schoolma'am's  getting  fighty,  if  I'm  any  judge." 

Weary  pulled  himself  together  and  tried  to  look 
away,  but  a  pair  of  long  blue  eyes  with  heavy  white 
iids  drew  him  hypnotically  across  the  room.  He  did 
not  want  to  go;  he  did  not  mean  to  go,  but  the  first  he 
knew  he  was  standing  before  her  and  she  was  smiling 
up  at  him  just  as  she  used  to  do.  And  an  evil  spell 
seemed  to  fall  upon  Weary,  so  that  he  thought  one  set 
of  thoughts  while  his  lips  uttered  sentences  quite  apart 
from  his  wishes.  He  was  telling  her,  for  instance, 
that  he  was  glad  to  see  her;  and  he  was  not  glad.  He 
was  wishing  the  train  which  brought  her  to  Montana 
had  jumped  the  track  and  gone  over  a  high  cut-bank, 
somewhere. 

She  continued  to  smile  up  at  him,  and  she  called 
him  Will  and  held  out  her  hand.  When,  squirming 
inward  protest,  he  took  it,  she  laid  her  left  hand  upon 
his  and  somehow  made  him  feel  as  if  he  were  in  a  trap. 
Her  left  hand  was  soft  and  plump  and  cool,  and  it  was 
covered  with  rings  that  gave  flashes  and  sparkles  of 
light  when  she  moved,  and  her  nails  were  manicured 

62 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

to  a  degree  not  often  seen  in  Dry  Lake.  She  drew 
her  fingers  caressingly  over  his  hand  and  spoke  to  him 
in  italics,  in  the  way  that  had  made  many  a  man  lose 
his  head  and  say  things  extremely  foolish.  Her  name 
was  Myrtle  Forsyth,  as  Weary  had  cause  to  remember. 

"How  strange  to  see  you  away  out  here,"  she  mur- 
mured, and  glanced  to  where  the  musicians  were  be- 
ginning to  play  little  preparatory  strains.  "Have  you 
forgotten  how  to  waltz,  Will?  You  used  to  dance  so 
well!9' 

What  could  a  man  do  after  a  hint  as  broad  as  that 
one?  Weary  held  out  his  arm  meekly,  while  mentally 
he  was  gnashing  his  teeth,  and  muttered  something 
about  her  giving  him  a  trial.  And  she  slipped  her  hand 
tinder  his  elbow  with  a  proprietary  air  that  was  not  lost 
upon  a  certain  brown-eyed  young  woman  across  the 
hall. 

Weary  had  said  some  hard  things  to  Myrtle  Forsytb 
when  he  talked  with  her  last;  away  back  in  Iowa;  he 
had  hoped  to  heaven  he  never  would  see  her  again. 
Now,  she  observed  that  he  had  not  lost  his  good  looks 
in  grieving  over  her.  She  decided  that  he  was 


The     Lonesome     TraiA 

better  looking;  there  was  an  air  of  strength  and  a  self 
poise  that  was  very  becoming  to  his  broad  shoulders 
and  the  six  feet  two  inches  of  his  height.  She  thought, 
before  the  waltz  was  over,  that  she  had  made  a  mis- 
take when  she  threw  him  over — a  mistake  which  she 
ought  to  rectify  at  once. 

Weary  never  knew  how  she  managed  it — in  truth, 
he  was  not  aware  that  she  did  it  at  all — but  he  seemed 
to  dance  a  great  many  times  with  her  of  the  long  eyes 
and  the  bright  auburn  hair.  The  schoolma'am  seemed 
always  to  be  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  and  she 
appeared  to  be  enjoying  herself  very  much  and  to 
dance  incessantly. 

Once  he  broke  away  from  Miss  Forsyth  and  went 
and  asked  Miss  Satterly  for  the  next  waltz;  but  she 
opened  her  big  eyes  at  him  and  assured  him  politely 
that  she  was  engaged.  He  tried  for  a  quadrille,  a 
two-step,  a  schottische — even  for  a  polka,  which  she 
knew  he  hated;  but  the  schoolma'am  was,  apparently, 
the  most  engaged  young  woman  in  Dry  Lake  that 
night. 

So  Weary  owned  himself  beaten  and  went  back  to 
64 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

Miss  Forsyth,  who  had  been  watching  and  learning 
many  things  and  making  certain  plans.  Weary  danced 
with  her  once  and  took  a  fit  of  sulking,  when  he  stood 
over  by  the  door  and  smoked  cigarettes  and  watched 
moodily  the  whirling  couples.  Miss  Forsyth  drifted 
to  other  acquaintances,  which  was  natural;  what  was 
not  so  natural,  to  Weary 's  mind,  was  to  see  her  sitting 
out  a  quadrille  with  the  schoolma'am. 

That  did  not  look  good  to  Weary,  and  he  came  near 
going  over  and  demanding  to  know  what  they  were 
talking  about.  He  was  ready  to  bet  that  Myrt  Forsyth, 
with  that  smile,  was  up  to  some  deviltry — and  he  wished 
he  knew  what.  She  reminded  him  somewhat  of 
Glory  when  Glory  was  cloyed  with  peaceful  living. 
He  even  told  himself  viciously  that  Myrt  Forsyth  had 
hair  the  exact  shade  of  Glory's,  and  it  came  near  giving 
him  a  dislike  of  the  horse. 

The  conversation  in  the  corner,  after  certain  con- 
ventional subjects  had  been  exhausted,  came  to  Miss 
Forsyth's  desire  something  like  this:  She  said  how 
she  loved  to  waltz, — with  the  right  partner,  that  is. 
Apropos  the  right  partner,  she  glanced  slyly 

65 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

from    the    end    of    her  long    eyes     and    remarked: 

"  Will — Mr.  Davidson — is  an  ideal  partner,  don't  you 
think  ?  Are  you — but  of  course  you  must  be  acquainted 
with  him,  living  in  the  same  neighborhood?"  Her 
inflection  made  a  question  of  the  declaration. 

"Certainly  I  am  acquainted  with  Mr.  Davidson," 
said  Miss  Satterly  with  just  the  right  shade  of  in- 
difference. "Pie  does  dance  very  well,  though  there 
are  others  I  like  better."  That,  of  course,  was  a 
prevarication.  "You  knew  him  before  tonight?" 

Miss  Forsyth  laughed  that  sort  of  laugh  which  may 
mean  anything  you  like.  "Knew  him?  Why,  we 
were  en — that  is,  we  grew  up  in  the  same  town.  I  was 
so  perfectly  amazed  to  find  him  here,  poor  fellow. " 

"Why  poor  fellow?"  asked  Miss  Satterly,  the  direct. 
'* Because  you  found  him?  or  because  he  is  here?" 

The  long  eyes  regarded  her  curiously.  "Why, 
don't  you  know?  Hasn't — hasn't  it  followed  him?" 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  said  the  schoolma'am, 
calmly  facing  the  stare.  "  If  you  mean  a  dog,  he  doesn't 
own  one,  I  believe.  Cowboys  don't  seem  to  take  to 
dogs;  they're  afraid  they  might  be  mistaken  for  sheep 

66 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

herders,  perhaps — and  that  would  be  a  disgrace." 
Miss  Forsyth  leaned  back  and  her  eyes,  half  closed 
as  they  were,  saw  Weary  away  down  by  the  door 
"No,  I  didn't  mean  a  dog.  I'm  glad  if  he  has  gottec 
quite  away  from — he's  such  a  dear  fellow!  Even  if 
he  did — but  I  never  believed  it,  you  know.  If  only  he 
had  trusted  me,  and  stayed  to  face —  But  he  went 
without  telling  me  goodbye,  even,  and  we —  But  he 
was  afraid,  you  see — ' ' 

Miss  Satterly  also  glanced  across  to  where  Weary 
stood  gloomily  alone,  his  hands  thrust  into  his  pocketSo 
"I  really  can't  imagine  Mr.  Davidson  as  being  afraid," 
she  remarked  defensively. 

"Oh,  but  you  don't  understand!  Will  is  physically 
brave — and  ha  was  afraid  I —  but  I  believed  in  him, 
always — even  when — "  She  broke  off  suddenly  and 
became  prettily  diffident.  "I  wonder  why  I  am  talk- 
ing to  you  like  this.  But  there  is  something  so  sympa- 
thetic in  your  very  atmosphere — and  seeing  him  so 
1 *  unexpectedly  brought  it  all  back —  and  it  seemed  as 
if  I  must  talk  to  someone,  or  I  should  shriek. "  (Myrtle 
Forsyth  was  often  just  upon  the  point  of  "shrieking") 

67 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

"And  he  was  so  glad  to  see  me — and  when  I  told  him 
I  never  believed  a  word —  But  you  see,  leaving  the 
way  he  d-id — " 

"Well,"   said  Miss  Satterly  rather  unsympatheti 
cally,  "  and  how  did  he  leave,  then  ?' ' 

Miss  Forsyth  twisted  her  watch  chain  and  hesitated. 
"I  really  ought  not  to  say  a  word — if  you  really  don't 
know — what  he  did — " 

"If  it's  to  his  discredit,"  said  the  schoolma'am, 
looking  straight  at  her,  "I  certainly  don't  know.  It 
must  have  been  something  awful,  judging  from  your 
tone.  Did  he" — she  spoke  solemnly — "did  he  mur-r- 
der  ten  people,  old  men  and  children,  and  throw  their 
bodies  into — a  well?" 

It  is  saying  much  for  Miss  Forsyth  that  she  did  not 
look  as  disconcerted  as  she  felt.  She  did,  however, 
show  a  rather  catty  look  in  her  eyes,  and  her  voice  was 
tinged  faintly  with  malice.  "There  are  other  crimes— 
beside — murder"  she  reminded.  "I  won't  tell  what 
it  was — but — but  Will  found  it  necessary  to  leave  in 
the  night!  He  did  not  even  come  to  tell  me  goodbye, 
and  I  have — but  now  we  have  met  by  chance,  and  I 

68 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

could  explain — and  so,"  she  smiled  tremulously  at  the 
schoolma'am,  "I  know  you  can  understand — and  you 
will  not  mention  to  anyone  what  I  have  told  you.  I!  m 
too  impulsive — and  I  felt  drawn  to  you,  somehow.  I 
— I  would  die  if  I  thought  any  harm  could  come  to 
Witt  because  of  my  confiding  in  you.  A  woman," 
she  added  pensively,  "has  so  much  to  bear — and  this 
has  been  very  hard — because  it  was  not  a  thing  I  could 
talk  over — not  even  with  my  own  mother!"  Miss 
Forsyth  had  the  knack  of  saying  very  4ittle  that  was 
definite,  and  implying  a  great  deal.  This  method 
saved  her  the  unpleasantness  of  retraction,  and  had 
quite  as  deep  an  effect  is  if  she  came  out  plainly.  She 
smiled  confidingly  down  at  the  schoolma'am  and  went 
off  to  waltz  with  Bert  Rogers,  apparently  quite  satisfied 
with  what  she  had  accomplished. 

Miss  Satterly  sat  very  still,  scarce  thinking  con- 
sciously. She  stared  at  Weary  and  tried  to  imagine 
him  a  fugitive  from  his  native  town,  and  in  spite  of 
herself  wondered  what  it  was  he  had  done.  It  must 
be  something  very  bad,  and  she  shrank  from  the  thought. 
Then  Cal  Emmett  came  up  to  ask  her  for  a  dance,  and 

60 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

she  went  with  him  thankfully  and  tried  to  forget  the 
things  she  had  heard. 

Weary,  after  dancing  with  every  woman  but  the  one 
he  wanted,  and  finding  himself  beside  Myrtle  Forsyth 
with  a  frequency  that  puzzled  him,  felt  an  unutterable 
disgust  for  the  whole  thing.  After  a  waltz  quadrille, 
during  which  he  seemed  to  get  her  out  of  his  arms  only 
to  find  her  swinging  into  them  again,  and  smiling  up  at 
him  in  a  way  he  knew  of  old,  he  made  desperately  for 
the  door;  snatched  up  the  first  gray  hat  he  came  to — 
which  happened  to  belong  to  Chip — and  went  out  into 
the  dewy  darkness. 

It  was  half  an  hour  before  he  could  draw  the  hostler 
of  the  Dry  Lake  stable  away  from  a  crap  game,  and  it 
was  another  half  hour  before  he  succeeded  in  over- 
coming Glory's  disinclination  for  a  gallop  over  the 
Drairie  alone. 

But  it  was  two  hours  before  Miss  Forsythe  gave 
ove7*  watching  furtively  the  door,  and  it  was  daylight 
before  Chip  Emmett  found  a  gray  hat  under  the  water 
bench — a  hat  which  he  finally  recognized  as  Weary's 
and  so  appropriated  to  his  own  use. 

70 


PAPT  FOUR 

Weary  clattered  up  to  the  school-house  door  to 
find  it  erupting  divers  specimens  of  young  America — 
by  adoption,  some  of  them.  He  greeted  each  one 
cheerfully  by  name  and  waited  upon  his  horse  in  the 
shade. 

Close  behind  the  last  sun-bonnet  came  Miss  Sat- 
terly,  key  in  hand.  Evidently  she  had  no  intention  of 
lingering,  that  night;  Weary  smiled  down  upon  her 
tentatively  and  made  a  hasty  guess  as  to  her  stale  of 
mind — a  very  important  factor  in  view  of  what  he  had 
come  to  say. 

"Irs  awful  hot,  Schoolma'am;  if  I  were  you  I'd 
wait  a  while — till  the  sun  lets  up  a  little." 

To  his  unbounded  surprise,  Miss  Satterly  calmly 
sat  down  upon  the  doorstep.  Weary  promptly  slid 
ont  of  the  saddle  and  sat  down  besid^  her,  thankful 
that  the  step  was  not  a  wide  one.  "You've  been  un- 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

mercifully  hard  to  locate  since  the  dance,"  he  com- 
plained. "  I  like  to  lost  my  job,  chasing  over  this  way , 
when  I  was  supposed  to  be  headed  another  direction, 
I  came  by  here  last  night  at  five  minutes  after  four, 
and  you  weren't  in  sight  anywhere;  was  yesterday  a 
holiday  ?" 

"You  probably  diHn't  look  in  the  window/'  said  the 
schoolma'am.  "  I  was  writing  letters  here  till  after  five." 

"With  the  door  shut  and  locked?" 

"The  wind  blew  so,"  explained  Miss  Satterly, 
lamely.  "  And  that  lock—" 

"First  I  knew  of  the  wind  blowing  yesterday.  It 
was  as  hot  as  the  hubs  uh  he — as  bme  blazes  when  I 
came  by.  There  weren't  any  windows  up,  even — I 
hope  you  was  real  comfortable." 

"Perfectly,"  she  assured  him. 

"I'll  gamble  yuh  were!  Well,  and  where  were  yuh 
;ached  last  Sunday?" 

"Nowhere.  I  went  with  Bert  and  Miss  Forsyth  up 
in  the  mountains.  We  took  our  lunch  and  had  a  per- 
fectly lovely  time." 

"I'm  glad  somebody  had  a  good  time.  I  got  away 
72 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

at  nine  o'clock  and  came  over  to  Meeker's — and  you 
weren't  there;  so  I  rode  the  rim-rocks  till  sunaown, 
trying  to  locate  yuh.  It's  easier  hunting  strays  in  the 
Bad  Lands." 

Miss  Satterly  seemed  about  to  speak,  but  she  changed 
her  mind  and  gazed  at  the  coulee-rim. 

"It's  hard  to  get  away,  these  days,"  Weary  went  on 
explaining.  "  I  wanted  to  come  before  the  dance,  but 
we  were  gathering  some  stuff  out  the  other  way,  and  I 
couldn't.  The  Old  Man  is  shipping,  yuh  see;  we're 
holding  a  bunch  right  now,  waiting  for  cars.  I  got 
Happy  Jack  to  stand  herd  in  my  place,  is  how  I  got 
here." 

The  schoolma'am  yawned  apologetically  into  her 
palm.  Evidently  she  was  not  greatly  interested  in  the 
comings  and  goings  of  Weary  Davidson. 

"How  did  yuh  like  the  dance?"  he  asked,  coming  if 
the  subject  that  he  knew  was  the  vital  point. 

*' Lovely,"  said  the  schoolma'am  briefly,  but  with 
fervor. 

"Different  here,"  asserted  Weary.  "I  drifted* 
right  before  supper." 

73 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

"Did  you?"  Miss  Satterly  accented  the  first  word 
in  a  way  she  taught  her  pupils  indicated  surprise. 

"I  don't  reckon  you  noticed  it.  You  were  pretty 
busy,  about  then." 

Miss  Satterly  laughed  languid  assent. 

"I  never  knew  before  that  Bert  Rogers  was  any 
relation  of  Myrt  Forsyth,"  observed  Weary,  edging 
still  nearer  the  vital  point.  "They  sure  aren't  much 
alike." 

I     "You  used  to  know  her?"  asked  Miss  Satterly, 
politely. 

"Well,  I  should  say  yes.  I  used  to  go  to  school 
with  Myrt  How  do  you  like  her?" 

"Lovely,"  said  Miss  Satterly,  this  tune  without 
fervor. 

Weary  began  digging  a  trench  with  his  spurs.  He 
wished  the  schoolma'am  would  not  limit  herself  so  rigidly 
to  that  one  adjective.  It  became  unmeaning  with 
much  use,  so  that  it  left  a  fellow  completely  in  th* 
dark. 

"  Just  about  everybody  says  that  about  her— at  first, * 
lie  remarked. 

74 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

"Did     you?"    she    asked     him,      still      politely. 

"I  did  a  heap  worse  than  that,"  said  Weary,  grimly 
determined.  "  I  had  a  bad  case  of  calf-love  and  made 
ft  fool  uh  myself  generally." 

"What  fun!'*  chirped  the  schoolma'am  with  an  un- 
convincing little  laugh. 

"Not  for  me,  it  wasn't.  Whilst  I  had  it  I  used  to 
pack  a  lock  uh  that  red  hair  in  my  breast  pocket  and 
heave  sighs  over  it  that  near  lifted  me  out  uL  my  boots. 
Oh,  I  was  sure  earnest!  But  she  did  me  the  biggest 
favor  she  could;  a  slick-haired  piano-tuner  come  to 
town  and  she  turned  me  down  for  him  I  was  plumb 
certain  my  heart  was  busted  wide  open,  at  the  time, 
though."  Weary  laughed  reminiscently. 

"She  said — I  think  you  misunderstood  her.  She 
appears  to — "  Miss  Satterly,  though  she  felt  that  she 
was  b^ing  very  generous,  did  not  quite  know  how  to 
finish. 

"Not  on  your  life!    It  was  the  first  time  I  ever  did  , 
understand  Myrt.    When  I  left  there  I  wasn't  doing 
any  guessing." 

"You  shouldn't  have  left,"  she  told  him  suddenly^ 
75 


The     I,  onesome     Trail 

gripping  her  courage  at  this  bold  mention  of  his  flight. 
How  she  wished  she  knew  why  he  left. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  It  was  about  the  only  thing  I 
could  do,  at  the  time— the  only  thing,  that  is,  that  I 
wanted  to  do.  It  seemed  like  I  couldn't  get  away  fast 
enough."  It  was  brazen  of  him,  she  thought,  to  treat 
it  all  so  coolly.  "And  out  here,"  he  added  thought- 
fully, "I  could  get  the  proper  focus  on  Myrt — which  I 
couldn't  du  back  there." 

"Distance  lends—" 

"Not  in  this  case,"  he  interrupted.  "It's  when 
you're  right  with  Myrt  that  she  kinda  hypnotizes  yuh 
into  thinking  what  she  wants  yuh  to  think."  He  was 
remembering  resentfully  the  dance. 

"But  to  sneak  away — " 

"That's  a  word  I  don't  remember  was  ever  shot  at 
me  before,"  said  Weary,  the  blood  showing  through 
the  skin  on  his  cheeks.  "If  that  damned  Myrt  has 
oeen  telling  yuh — " 

"I  didn't  think  you  would  speak  like  that  about  a 
woman,  Mr.  Davidson,"  said  the  schoolma'am  with 
disapproval  in  her  tone;  and  the  disapproval  not  going 

76 


fhe     Lonesome     Trail 

very  deep,  there  was  the  more  of  it  upon  the  surface. 

"  I  suppose  it  gives  evidence  of  a  low,  brutal  trait  in 
my  nature,  that  you  hoped  I  couldn't  harbor/'  acceded 
Weary  meekly. 

"It  does,"  snapped  the  schoolma'am,  her  cheeks 
hot.  If  she  had  repented  her  flare  of  temper  over  the 
gopher,  she  certainly  did  not  intend  letting  him  know  it 
too  soon.  She  seemed  inclined  to  discipline  him  a  bit 

Weary  smoked  silently  and  raked  up  the  sun-baked 
soil  with  his  spurs.  "How  long  is  Myrt  going  to 
stay?"  he  ventured  at  last. 

"I  never  asked  her,"  she  vetorted.  "You  ought  to 
know — you  probably  have  seen  her  last."  The  school- 
ma'am  blundered,  there. 

Weary  drew  a  sigh  of  relief;  if  she  were  jealous,  it 
must  mean  that  she  cared.  "  That's  right.  I  saw  her 
last  night,"  he  stated  calmly. 

Miss  Satterly  sat  more  erect,  if  that  were  possible. 
She  had  not  known  of  this  last  meeting,  and  she  had 
merely  shot  at  random,  anyway. 

"At  least,"  he  amended,  watching  her  from  the 
corner  of  his  eye,  "  I  saw  a  woman  and  a  man  ride  over 

77 


The    Lonesome     Trail 

the  hill  back  of  Benson's,  last  night.  The  man  was 
Bert,  and  the  woman  had  red  hair;  I  took  it  to  be  Myrt." 

"You  surely  should  be  a  good  judge,"  remarked 
Miss  Satterly,.  irritated  because  she  knew  he  was 
teasing. 

Weary  was  quick  to  read  the  signs.  "What  did  you 
mean,  a  while  back,  about  me  sneaking  away  from 
Chadville?  And  how  did  yuh  happen  to  have  your 
dances  booked  forty-in-advance,  the  other  night? 
And  what  makes  yuh  so  mean  to  me,  lately  ?  And  will 
yuh  take  a  jaunt  over  Eagle  Butte  way  with  me  next 
Sunday — if  I  can  get  off?" 

The  schoolmp.'am,  again  feeling  herself  mistress  of 
the  situation,  proceeded  with  her  disciplining.  She 
smiled,  raised  one  hand  and  checked  off  the  questions 
upon  her  fingers.  You  never  would  guess  how  oddly 
her  heart  was  behaving — she  looked  such  a  self-possess- 
ed young  woman, 

"  I'll  begin  at  the  last  one  and  work  backward,"  she 
said,  calmly.  "And  I  must  hurry,  for  aunt  Meeker 
hates  to  keep  supper  waiting.  No,  I  will  not  go  for  a 
jaunt  over  Eagle  Butte  way  next  Sunday.  I  have 

78 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

other  plans;  if  I  hadn't  other  plans  I  still  would  not  go. 
T  hope  this  is  quite  plain  to  you?" 

"  Oh,  it's  good  and  plain,"  responded  Weary.  *  But 
for  the  Lord's  sake  don't  take  up  that  talking  in  italics, 
like  Myrt  does.  I  can't  stand  this  bearing  down  hard 
on  every  other  word.  It  sets  my  teeth  all  on  edge."* 

The  schoolma'am  opened  her  eyes  wider.  Was  it 
possible  Weary  was  acquiring  an  irritable  temper? 
"Second"  she  went  on  deliberately,  "I  do  not  con- 
sider that  I  have  been  mean  to  you;  and  if  I  have  it  is 
because  I  choose  to  be  so." 

Weary,  observing  a  most  flagrant  arcent,  shut  his 
lips  rather  tightly  together. 

"Third— let  me  see.  Oh,  that  about  the  dances;  I 
can  only  say  that  we  women,  as  a  means  of  self-defence, 
claim  the  privilege  of  effacing  undesirable,  wouiv>be 
partners  by  a  certain/0rw  of  rejection,  which  eliminates 
the  necessity  of  going  into  unpleasant  details,  and — er 
— lets  the  fellow  down  easy."  The  schoolma'am's 
emphasis  and  English  seemed  to  collapse  together, 
but  Weary  did  not  notice  that. 
L  "  I'm  sure  grateful  to  be  let  down  easy,"  he  said  softly, 

79 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

without  looking  up;  his  head  was  bent  so  that  his  hat 
quite  concealed  from  the  schoolma'am  his  face,  but  if 
she  had  known  him  longer,  perhaps  she  would  have 
gone  carefully  after  that. 

"  As  to  your  sneaking  away  from — wherever  it  was — * 
surely,  you  ought  to  know  about  that  better  than  I  do- 
One  must  go  far  to  outdistance  dishonor,  for  a,  man's 
misdeeds  are  sure  to  follow  him,  soon  or  late.     I  will 
not  go  into  details — but  you  understand  what  I  mean." 

"No,"  said  Weary,  still  with  bent  head,  'Til  be 
darned  if  I  do.  And  if  I  did,  I  know  about  where  to 
locate  the  source  of  all  the  information  you've  loaded 
up  on.  Things  were  going  smooth  as  silk  till  Myrt 
Forsyth  drifted  out  here— the  red-headed  little  devil!" 

"Mr.  Davidson!"  cried  the  schoolma'am,  truiy 
shocked. 

"  Oh,  I'm  revealing  some  more  low,  brutal  instincts, 
I  expect.  I'm  liable  to  reveal  a  lot  more  if  I  hang^ 
around  much  longer."  He  stopped,  as  if  there  wo*, 
more  he  wanted  to  say,  and  was  doubtful  of  the  wis- 
dom of  saying  it. 

"I  came   over  to  say  something — something  par- 
80 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

ticular — but  I've  changed  my  mind.  I  guess  yuh 
haven't  much  time  to  listen,  and  I  don't  believe  i* 
would  interest  yuh  as  much  as  I  thought  it  would — & 
while  back.  You  just  go  ahead  and  make  a  bosom 
•, friend  uh  Myrt  Forsyth,  Schoolma' am,  and  believe  every 
blamed  lie  she  tells  yuh.  I  won't  be  here  to  argue  the 
point.  Looks  to  me  like  I'm  about  due  to  drift." 

Miss  Satterly,  dumb  with  fear  of  what  his  words 
might  mean,  sat  stiffly  while  Weary  got  up  and  mounted 
Glory  in  a  business  like  manner  that  was  extremely 
disquieting. 

"I  wish  you  could  a  cared,  Girlie, "  he  said  with  a 
droop  of  his  unsmiling  mouth  and  a  gloom  in  his  eyes 
when  he  looked  at  her.  "  I  was  a  chump,  I  reckon,  to 
ever  imagine  yuh  could.  Good-bye — and  be  good  to 
— yourself."  He  leaned  to  one  side,  swung  back- 
ward his  feet  and  Glory,  obeying  the  signal,  wheeled 
and  bounded  away. 

Miss  Satterly  watched  him  gallop  up  the  long  slope 
and  the  pluckety  pluckety  of  Glory's  fleeing  feet  struck 
heavy,  numbing  blows  upon  her  heart.  She  won- 
dered why  she  had  refused  to  ride  with  him,  when  she 

81 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

did  want  to  go — she  did  And  why  had  she  been  so 
utterly  hateful,  after  waiting  and  watching,  night  after 
night,  for  him  to  come? 

And  just  how  much  did  he  mean  by  being  due  tG 
drift?  He  couldn't  be  really  angry — and  what  was  he 
going  to  say—  the  thing  he  changed  his  mind  about. 
Was  it — W*U,  he  would  come  again  in  a  few  days* 
and  theft"' 


PART  FIVE 

Weary  did  not  go  back.  When  the  hurry  of  shipping 
was  over  he  went  to  Shorty  and  asked  for  his  time, 
much  to  the  foreman's  astonishment  and  disgust. 
The  Happy  Family  was  incensed  and  wasted  pro- 
fanity and  argument  trying  to  make  him  give  up  the 
crazy  notion  of  quitting. 

It  seemed  to  Weary  that  he  warded  off  their  curiosity 
and  answered  their  arguments  very  adroitly.  He  was 
sick  of  punching  cows,  he  said,  and  he  wasn't  hanker- 
ing for  a  chance  to  shovel  hay  another  winter  to  an 
ungrateful  bunch  of  bawling  calves.  He  was  going  to 
drift,  for  a  change — but  he  didn't  know  where.  It 
didh't  much  matter,  *>o  long  as  he  got  a  change  uh 
scenery.  He  just  merely  wanted  to  knock  around  and 
get  the  alkali  dust  out  of  his  lungs  and  see  something 
grow  besides  calves  and  cactus.  His  eyes  plumb 
ached  for  sight  of  an  apple  tree  with  real,  live  apples  on 

«3 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

it — that  weren't    wrapped    up  in  a    paper    napkin. 

When  was  he  coming  back  ?  Well,  now,  that  was  a 
question;  he  hadn't  got  started  yet,  man.  What  he 
was  figuring  on  wasn't  the  coming  back  part,  but  the 
getting  started. 

The  schoolma'am?  Oh,  he  guessed  she  could  get 
along  without  him,  all  right.  Seeing  they  mentioned 
her,  would  some  of  them  tell  her  hello  for  him — end  so 
long? 

This  last  was  at  the  station,  where  they  had  ridden 
in  a  body  to  see  him  off.  Weary  waved  his  hat  as  long 
as  the  town  was  in  sight,  and  the  Happy  Family  ran 
their  horses  to  keep  pace  with  the  train  when  it  pulled 
out,  emptied  their  six-shooters  into  the  air  and  yelled 
parting  words  till  the  Pullman  windows  were  filled 
with  shocked,  Eastern  fac^s,  eager  to  see  a  real,  wild 
cowboy  on  his  native  soil. 

Then  Weary  went  into  the  smoker,  sought  a  place 
where  he  could  stretch  the  long  legs  of  him  over  two) 
seats,  made  him  a  cigarette  and  forgot  to  smoke  it 
while  he  watched  the  gray  plains  slide  away  behind 
him;  till  something  went  wrong  with  his  eyes.  It  was 

84 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

just  four  o'clock,  and  school  was  out.  The  school- 
ma'am  was  looking  down  the  trail,  maybe —  At  any 
rate  she  was  a  good  many  miles  away  from  him  now-^ 
so  many  that  even  if  he  got  off  and  had  Glory  right 
there  and  ran  him  every  foot  of  the  way,  he  could  not 
possibly  get  to  her — and  the  way  the  train  was  gallop- 
ing  over  the  rails,  she  was  every  minute  getting  farther 
off,  and —  What  a  damn  fool  a  man  can  make  of 
himself,  rushing  off  like  that  when,  maybe — 

After  that,  a  fellow  who  traveled  for  a  San  Francisco 
wine  house  spoke  to  him  pleasantly  and  Weary  thrust 
vain  longings  from  him  and  was  himself  again. 

For  two  months  he  wandered  aimlessly  anJ  '^i 
not  quite  at  the  point  of  going  back  and  not  being  rich 
or  an  idler  by  nature,  he  started  out,  one  gloomy  morn- 
ing in  late  November,  looking  for  work.  He  was  in 
Portland  and  the  city  was  strange  to  him,  for  he  had 
dropped  off  a  north-bound  train  the  night  before. 

People  hurried  past  without  a  glance  in  his  direction, 
and  even  after  two  months  this  made  him  lonesome, 
coming  as  he  did  from  a  place  where  every  man  hailed 
him  jovially  by  his  adopted  name. 

85 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

There  was  little  that  he  could  do — or  would  do.    He 
tried  digging  ditches  for  the  c,,v,  along  with  a  motley 
ollection  of  the  sons  of  all  nations  but  his,  seemingly 

The  first  day  be  blistered  both  hands  and  got  a 
"crick"  in  his  back. 

The  second  day,  he  quit. 

On  the  third  day,  he  brought  up  at  the  door  of  a 
livery  stable.  A  man  with  a  slate-colored,  silk  waist- 
coat was  standing  aggressively  in  the  doorway,  one 
hand  deep  in  his  pocket  and  the  other  energetically 
punctuating  the  remarks  he  was  making  to  a  droop- 
shouldered  hostler.  Some  of  the  remarks  were  inter- 
esting in  the  extreme  and  Weary,  listening,  drew  a 
deep  sigh  of  thankfulness  that  they  were  not  directed 
at  himself,  because  his  back  was  still  lame  and  his  hands 
sore,  and  in  Portland  law-abiding  citizens  are  not 
supposed  to  "pack"  a  gun. 

The  droop-shouldered  man  waited  humbly  for  the 
climax — which  reached  so  high  a  tension  that  the  speak- 
er rose  upon  his  toes  to  deliver  it,  and  drew  his  right 
hand  from  his  pocket  to  aid  in  the  punctuation — when 
he  pulled  his  hat  down  on  his  head  and  slunk  away- 

86 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

It  was  while  the  orator  was  gazing  contemptuously 
after  him  that  he  heard  Weary  cheerfully  asking  for 
work.  For  Weary  was  a  straight  guesser;  he  knew 
when  he  stood  in  the  presence  of  the  Great  and  Only. 
The  man  wheeled  and  measured  Weary  slowly  with 
his  eyes — and  there  being  a  good  deal  of  Weary  if  you 
measured  lengthwise,  he  consumed  several  seconds 
doing  it. 

"Humph!"  when  the  survey  was  over.  "What  do 
you  know  about  horses?"  His  tone  was  colored  still 
by  the  oration  he  had  just  delivered,  and  it  was  not 
encouraging. 

Weary  looked  down  upon  him  and  smiled  indul- 
gence of  the  /one.  "If  you  aren't  busy  right  now,  I'll 
start  in  and  tell  yuh.  Yuh  better  sit  down  on  that 
bucket  whilst  I'm  doing  it — if  I'm  thorough  it'll  take 
time." 

"Humph!"  said  the  man  again  and  carefully  pared 
ihe  end  of  a  fat,  black  cigar.  "You  seem  to  think 
you  know  it  all.  What's  your  trade ?>* 

"Punching  cows— in  Northern  Montana."  answered 
Weary,  mildly. 

87 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

The  man  took  the  trouble  to  look  at  him  again,  this 
time  more  critically — and  more  favorably,  perhaps. 
" Bronco-buster?"  he  demanded,  briefly. 

'*  Some, "  grinned  Weary,  his  thoughts  whirling  back 
>  to  the  dust  and  uproar  in  the  Flying  U  corrals — and  to 
Glory. 

The  man  seemed  to  read  what  was  in  his  eyes. 
"You  ought  to  know  better  than  to  founder  a  three* 
hundred-dollar  trotter,  then,"  he  remarked,  with  some 
of  the  growl  smoothed  out  of  his  voice. 

"I  sure  had/'  agreed  Weary,  sympathetically. 

"That's  why  I  fired  that  four-or-five-kinds-of  idiot 
just  now,"  confided  the  other,  rising  to  the  sympathy 
in  Weary's  tone.  "I  need  men  that  know  a  little 
something  about  horses — the  foreman  can't  always 
be  at  a  man's  elbow.  You  can  start  right  in — pay's 
good.  Go  tell  the  foreman  I've  hired  you;  that's  him 
mck  there  in  the  office. " 

Then  came  the  rain.  Week  after  week  of  drab 
clouds  and  drizzle,  and  no  sun  to  hearten  a  man  for 
his  work.  Week  after  week  of  bobbing  umbrellas, 
muddy  crossings,  sloppy  pavements  and  dripping  eaves 

88 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

—and   a  cold  that  chilled  the  marrow  in  his  bones. 

Weary,  after  a  week  of  poking  along  in  the  rain  of 
an  evening  when  his  work  was  done,  threw  up  his  hands, 
figuratively,  and  bought  him  an  umbrella,  hoping 
devoutly  they  would  never  get  to  hear  of  it  in  Dry 
Lake.  He  stood  for  two  minutes  in  the  deep  doorway 
of  the  store  before  he  found  nerve  to  open  the  awkward 
thing,  and  when  he  did  so  he  glanced  sheepishly  around 
him  as  if  it  were  a  weak  thing  to  do  and  a  disgrace- 
ful. 

Fog  and  rain  and  mud  and  mist,  day  after  day  through 
long  months.  Feeding  hungry  horses  their  breakfast 
at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning;  brushing,  currying, 
combing  till  they  shone  satin-smooth.  Harnessing, 
unharnessing;  washing  mud  from  rigs  lhat  would  be 
splashed  and  plastered  again  before  night.  Driving 
to  houses  that  were  known  by  the  number  over  the  door, 
giving  the  reins  over  to  somebody  and  walking  back 
in  the  rain.  Piling  mangers  with  hay,  strewing  the 
stalls  deep  with  straw.  Patting  this  horse  as  he  passed, 
commanding  the  next  to  move  over,  stopping  to  whisper 
caressing  words  into  the  ear  of  a  favorite.  Sitting 

89 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

listlessly  in  the  balcony  of  some  theatre  in  the  evening 
while  a  mimic  world  lived  its  joys  and  sorrows  below 
and  an  orchestra  played  soft  accompaniment  to  his 
vagrant  thoughts.  All  this  was  Weary's  life  in  Port- 
land. 

Not  exactly  hilarious,  that  life.  Not  a  homelike 
one  to  a  man  fresh  from  eating,  sleeping,  working, 
reveling  with  fellows  who  would  cheerfully  giv  him 
the  coat  upon  their  straight  backs  if  he  needed  it; 
fight  for  him,  laugh  at  him,  or  laugh  with  him,  tease 
him,  bully  him,  love  him  like  a  brother — in  short, 
fresh  from  Jim  Whitmore's  Happy  Family. 

No  one  hailed  him  as  Weary;  his  fellow  hostlers 
called  him  simply  Bill.  No  one  knew  the  life  he  knew 
or  loved  the  things  he  loved.  His  stories  of  wild  rides 
and  hard  drives  must  be  explained  as  he  went  along 
and  fell  even  then  upon  barren  soil;  so  he  gave  up  telling 
them.  Even  his  speech,  colored  as  it  was  with  the 
West  which  lies  East  of  the  Cascades,  sounded  strange 
in  their  ears  and  set  him  apart.  They  referred  to  him 
as  "the  cowboy". 

Sometimes,  when  the  skies  were  leaden  and  the  dead 
90 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

atmosphere  pressed  his  very  soul  to  the  dank  earth, 
Weary  would  hoist  his  umbrella  and  walk  and  walk 
and  walk,  till  the  streets  grew  empty  around  him  and 
his  footsteps  sounded  hollow  on  the  pavements.  One 
Sunday  when  it  was  not  actually  raining  he  hired  a 
horse  and  rode  into  the  country — and  he  came  back 
draggled  and  unhappy  from  plodding  through  the  mud, 
and  he  never  repeated  the  experiment. 

Sometimes  he  would  sit  all  the  evening  in  his  damp- 
walled  room  and  smoke  cigarettes  and  wonder  what  the 
boys  were  doing,  down  in  the  bunk-house  at  home. 
He  wondered  if  they  kept  Glory  up —  or  if  he  was 
rustling  on  the  range,  his  sorrel  back  humped  to  the 
storms  and  the  deviltry  gone  out  of  him  with  the  grim 
battle  for  mere  life. 

Perhaps  there  was  a  dance  somewhere;  it  was  a 
cinch  they  would  all  be  there — and  K^py  Jack  would 
wear  the  same  red  necktie  and  the  same  painful  smile 
of  embarrassment,  and  there  would  be  a  squabble  over 
the  piece  of  bar  mirror  to  shave  by.  And  the  school- 
ma'am —  But  here  Weary's  thoughts  would  shy  and 
stop  abruptly,  and  if  it  were  not  too  late  he  would  put 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

OB  his  hat  and  go  to  a  show;  one  of  those  ten-cent 
continuous-performance  places,  where  the  Swede  and 
the  Dutchman  flourish  and  the  Boneless  Man  ties 
himself  in  knots. 

A  man  will  grow  accustomed  to  anything,  give  him 
time  enough.  When  four  months  had  passed  in  this 
fashion,  Weary  began  insensibly  to  turn  more  to  the 
present  and  less  often  to  the  past.  His  work  was  not 
hard  the  pay  was  good  and  he  learned  the  ways  of  the 
towrs  and  got  more  in  touch  with  his  acquaintances. 
They  came  to  fill  his  life,  so  that  he  thought  less  often 
of  C\iip  and  Cal  and  Happy  Jack  and  Slim.  Others 
were  gradually  taking  their  places. 

No  one  had  as  yet  come  to  lift  Miss  Satterly's  brown 
eyes  4rom  the  deep  places  of  his  heart,  because  he 
again  shied  at  women;  but  he  was  able  to  draw  a  veil 
before  them  so  that  they  did  not  haunt  him  so  much. 
He  tegan  to  whistle  once  more,  as  he  went  about  his 
worfc ;  but  he  never  whistled  "  Good  Old  Summertime. " 
The-»e  were  other  foolish  songs  become  popular;  he 
rather  fancied  "Navajo"  these  days. 

*t  was  past  April  Fool's  day,  and  Weary  was  singing 
92 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

"Nava,  Nava,  my  Navajo,"  melodiously  while  he 
spread  the  straw  bedding  with  his  fork.  It  was  a 
beastly  day,  even  for  that  climate,  but  he  was  glad  of 
it.  He  had  only  to  fill  a  dozen  mangers  and  his  morn- 
ing's work  was  done,  with  the  prospect  of  an  idle  fore- 
noon; for  no  one  would  want  to  drive,  today,  unless 
it  was  absolutely  necessary. 

"  I  have  a  love  for-r  you  that  will  grow-ow; 

If  you'll  have  a  coon  for  a  beau — " 
trilled  Weary,  and  snapped  the  wires  off  a  bale  of 
hay  and  tore  it  open,  in  a  hurry  to  finish. 

A  familiar,  pungent  odor  smote  his  nostrils  and  he 
straightened.  For  a  minute  he  stood  perfectly  still; 
then  his  fingers  groped  tremblingly  in  the  hay,  closed 
upon  something,  and  every  nerve  in  him  quivered.  He 
held  it  fast  in  his  shaking  hands  and  sat  down  weakly 
upon  the  torn  bale. 

It  was  a  branch  off  a  sage  bush — dry,  shapeless, 
bruised  in  the  press,  but  it  carried  its  message  bravely. 
Holding  it  close  to  his  face,  drinking  in  the  smell  of  it 
greedily,  he  closed  his  eyes  involuntarily. 

Great,  gray  plains  closed  in  upon  him — dear,  familiar 
93 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

plains,  scarred  and  broken  with  sharp-nosed  hills  and 
deep,  water-worn  coulees  gleaming  barren  and  yellow 
m  the  sun.  The  blue,  blue  sky  was  bending  down  to 
meet  the  hills,  with  feathery,  white  clouds  trailing 
lazily  across.  His  cheeks  felt  the  cool  winds  which 
flapped  his  hat-brim  and  tingled  his  blood.  His  knees 
pressed  the  throb  and  life,  the  splendid,  working 
muscles  of  a  galloping  horse. 

Weary's  head  went  down  upon  his  hands,  with  the 
bit  of  sage  pressed  hard  against  his  cheek. 

Now  he  was  racing  over  the  springy  sod  which  sent 
a  sweet,  grassy  smell  up  to  meet  him.  Wild  range 
cattle  lumbered  out  of  his  way,  ran  a  few  paces  and 
stopped  to  gaze  after  him  with  big,  curious  eyes.  Be- 
fore him  stood  the  white-tented  camp  of  the  round-up, 
and  the  rope  corral  was  filled  with  circling  horses  half 
hidden  by  the  veil  of  dust  thrown  upward  by  their 
restless,  trampling  hoofs.  Now  he  was  in  the  midst? 
of  them,  a  coil  of  rope  in  his  left  hand;  his  right  swung 
the  loop  circling  over  his  head.  And  the  choking 
dust  was  in  his  eyes  and  throat,  and  in  his  nostrils  the 
rank  odor  of  many  horses.  Men  were  shouting  to  one 

94 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

another  above  the  confusion.  Oaths  were  hurled  after 
a  horse  which  warily  dodged  the  rope.  Saddles  strewed 
the  ground,  bits  clanked,  spurs  jingled,  care-free  laughs 
brightened  the  clamor. 

The  scene  shifted.  He  was  sitting,  helpless,  in  the 
saddle  while  Glory  carried  him  wantonly  over  the  hills, 
shaking  his  head  to  make  the  broken  bridle  rattle. 
Now  he  was  stopping  in  front  of  a  vine-covered  porch, 
where  a  girl  lay  sleeping  in  a  hammock — a  girl  with 
soft,  dark  hair  falling  down  to  the  floor  in  a  heavy 
braid.  Again,  he  was  sitting  on  the  school-house  steps, 
holding  a  smoking  gun  in  his  hand,  and  the  school- 
ma'am  was  standing,  flushed  and  reproving,  before 
trim.  The  wind  came  and  fluttered  her  skirts — 
"What's  the  matter,  Bill?  Yuh  sick?" 
Weary  raised  a  white,  haggard  face.  The  plains, 
the  blue  sky,  the  sunshine,  the  wind,  the  girl — were 
r;one.  He  was  sitting  upon  a  torn  bale  of  hay  in  a 
livery  stable  in  Portland.  Through  the  wide,  open 
door  he  could  see  the  muddy  street.  Gray  water- 
needles  darted  incessantly  up  from  the  pavement 
where  the  straight  lines  of  rain  struck.  On  the  roof 

95 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

&e  rain  was  drumming  a  monotone.  In  his  fingers 
"Vas  a  crumpled  bit  of  gray  sage-brush 

"Sick,  Bill?"  repeated  the  foreman,  sympathetically. 

''Oh,  go  to  hell!"  said  Weary,  ungratefully.  He 
felt  tired,  and  weak  and  old.  He  wanted  to  be  left 
alone.  He  wanted — God,  how  he  wanted  the  dream 
to  come  back  to  him,  and  to  come  back  to  him  true! 
To  close  about  him  and  wrap  him  in  its  sunny  folds; 
to  steep  his  senses  in  the  light  and  the  life,  the  sound 
and  the  smell  of  the  plains;  to  hear  the  wind  rushing 
over  the  treeless  hills;  to  see  the  wild  range  cattle 
nosing  the  crisp,  prairie  grass. 

He  got  unsteadily  upon  his  legs  and  went  slowly  to 
his  room;  dropped  wearily  upon  the  bed,  and  buried 
his  face  in  the  pillow  like  a  hurt  child.  In  his  fingers 
he  clutched  a  pungent,  gray  weed. 


PART  SIX 

Late  that  night  Weary,  his  belongings  stuffed  hur- 
riedly into  the  suit-case  he  called  his  "war-bag," 
started  home;  so  impatient  he  had  a  childish  desire  to 
ride  upon  the  engine  so  that  he  might  arrive  the  sooner, 
and  failing  that  he  spent  much  of  his  time  lurching 
between  smoking  car  and  tourist  sleeper,  unable  to  sit 
quietly  in  any  place  for  longer  than  ten  minutes  or  so. 
In  his  coat  pocket,  where  his  fingers  touched  it  often, 
was  a  crumpled  bit  of  sage-brush.  Dry  it  was,  and 
the  gray  leaves  were  crumbling  under  the  touch  of  his 
homesick  fingers,  but  the  smell  of  it,  aromatic  and 
fresh  and  strong,  breathed  of  the  plains  he  loved. 

At  Kalispell  he  went  out  on  the  platform  and  filled 
his  lungs  again  and  again  with  Montana  air,  that  was 
clean  of  fog  and  had  a  nip  to  it.  The  sun  shone,  the 
sky  was  blue  and  the  clouds  reminded  him  of  a  band 
of  new-washed  sheep  scattered  and  feeding  quietly. 

97 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

The  wind  blew  keen  in  his  face  and  set  his  blood  a-dance, 
his  blood,  which  for  long  months  had  moved  sluggishly 
in  his  veins. 

At  Shelby,  a  half-dozen  cowboys  galloped  briefly 
into  view  as  the  train  whizzed  by  down  the  valley,  and 
Weary  raised  the  car  window  and  leaned  far  out  to 
gaze  after  them  with  hungry  eyes.  He  wanted  to 
swing  his  hat  and  give  a  whoop  that  would  get  the  last 
wisps  of  fog  and  gray  murk  out  of  his  system — but 
there  were  other  passengers  already  shivering  and 
eyeing  him  in  unfriendly  fashion  because  of  the  open 
window.  He  wanted  to  get  out  and  run  and  run 
bareheaded,  over  the  bleak,  brown  hills;  but  he  closed 
the  window  and  behaved  as  well  as  he  could. 

The  stars  came  out  and  winked  at  him  just  as  they 
used  to  do  when  he  sat  on  Meeker 's  front  porch  and 
listened  to  the  schoolma'am  singing  softly  in  the  ham- 
mock, her  guitar  tinkling  a  mellow  undertone.  It  was 
too  early  now  for  the  hammock  to  be  swinging  in  the 
porch.  School  must  be  started  again,  though,  and 
seeing  the  schoolma'am  lived  right  there  with  her 
aunt  Meeker,  they  weren't  likely  to  hire  another  teacher 

98 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

He  hoped  Myrt  Forsyth  had  gone  back  to  Chadville 
where  she  belonged.  He  wished  now  that  he  had 
written  to  some  of  the  boys  and  kept  posted  on  what 
was  happening.  He  had  never  sent  back  so  much  as 
a  picture  postal,  and  he  had  consequently  not  heard  a 
word.  But  Weary's  nature  was  ever  hopeful  except 
when  he  was  extremely  angry,  and  then  he  did  not 
care  much  about  anything.  So  now,  he  took  it  for 
granted  things  had  gone  along  smoothly  and  that 
nothing  would  be  changed. 

******* 

Miss  Satterly  had  just  finished  listlessly  hearing  the 
last  spelling  class  recite,  when  she  glanced  through  the 
window  and  saw  Glory,  bearing  a  familiar  figure,  race 
down  the  hili  and  whip  into  the  school-house  path. 
Her  heart  gave  a  flop,  so  that  she  caught  at  the  desk  to 
steady  her  and  she  felt  the  color  go  out  of  her  face. 
Then  her  presence  of  mind  returned  so  that  she  said 
*  School's  dismissed" — without  going  through  the 
form  of  "Attention,  turn,  stand,  pass." 

The  children  eyed  her  curiously,  hesitated  and  theu 
rushed  noisily  out,  and  she  sank  down  upon  a  bench 

99 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  It  was  queer 
that  she  could  not  seem  to  get  hold  of  herself  and  be 
calm;  it  was  disgraceful  that  she  should  tremble  so. 
Outside  she  could  hear  them  shouting,  "Hello,  Weary!" 
in  a  dozen  different  keys,  and  each  time  her  blood 
jumped.  Her  eyes  had  not  tricked  her,  then — though 
it  was  not  the  first  time  she  had  trembled  to  see  a  sorrel 
horse  gallop  down  that  hill,  and  then  turned  numb 
when  came  disillusionment.  Would  those  children 
never  start  home?  By  degrees  their  shrill  voices 
sounded  further  away,  and  the  place  grew  still.  But 
the  schoolma'am  kept  her  face  covered. 

Spurred  heels  clanked  on  the  threshold,  stopped 
there,  and  the  door  shut  with  a  slam.  But  she  did  not 
look  up;  she  did  not  dare. 

Steps  came  down  the  room  toward  her — long,  hurry- 
ing steps,  determined  steps.  Close  beside  her  they 
stopped,  and  for  a  space  that  seemed  to  her  long  minutes 
there  was  no  sound. 

"Say  hello  to  me — won't  you,  Girlie?"  said  a  wistful 
voice  that  thrilled  to  the  tips  of  the  schoolma'am's 
shaking  fingers.  She  dropped  her  hands  then,  re- 

100 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

iuctantly.    Her  lips  quivered   as  Weary   had   never 
before  seen  them  do. 

"Hello,"  she  obeyed,  faintly. 

He  stood  for  a  moment,  studying  her  face. 

"Look  up  here,  Schoolma'am,"  he  commanded  at* 
last.  "I  hate  to  have  my  feet  get  so  much  attention. 
I've  come  back  to  fight  it  out — to  a  finish,  this  time. 
Yuh  can't  stampede  me  again — look  up  here.  I've 
been  plumb  sick  for  a  sight  of  those  big  eyes  of  yours." 

Miss  Satterly  persisted  in  gazing  at  the  boots  of 
Weary. 

"  Well,  are  yuh  going  to  ? ' '  There  was  a  new,  master- 
ful note  in  Weary's  voice,  that  the  schoolma'am  felt 
but  did  not  quite  understand — then.  She  did  not, 
perhaps,  realize  how  plainly  her  whole  attitude  spoke 
surrender. 

Weary  waited  what  seemed  to  him  a  reasonable 
time,  but  her  lashes  drooped  lower,  if  anything  Then 
he  made  one  of  the  quick,  unlooked-for  moves  which' 
made  him  a  master  of  horses.  Before  she  quite  knew 
what  was  occurring;  the  schoolma'am  was  upon  her 
feet  and  snuggled  close  in  Weary's  eager  arms.  More, 

xoi 


The    Lonesome     Trai\ 

he  had  a  hand  under  her  chin,  her  face  was  tilted  back 
and  he  was  smiling  down  into  her  wide,  startled  eyes. 
'I  didn't  burn  a  streak  a  thousand  miles  long  in 
the  atmosphere,  getting  back  here,  to  be  scared  out 
now  by  a  little  woman  like  you,"  he  remarked,  and 
tucked  a  stray,  brown  lock  solicitously  behind  her  ear. 
Then  he  bent  and  kissed  her  deliberately  upon  the 
nouth. 

"Now,  say  you're  my  little  schoolma'am.  Quick, 
before  I  do  it  again."  He  threatened  with  his  lips, 
and  he  looked  as  if  he  were  quite  anxious  to  carry  out 
his  threat. 

"I'm  your — "  the  schoolma'am  hid  her  face  from 
him.  "Oh,  Will!  Whatever  made  you  go  off  like  that, 
and  I — I  nearly  died  wanting  to  see  you — " 

Weary  laid  his  cheek  very  tenderly  against  hers,  and 
held  her  close.  No  words  came  to  either,  just  then. 

"What  if  I'd  kept  on  being  a  fool— and  hadn't  come 
:>ack  at  all,  Girlie?"  he  asked  softly,  after  a  while. 

The  schoolma'am  shuddered  eloquently  in  his  arms. 

"It  was  sure  lonesome — it  was  Hell  out  there  alone," 
he  observed,  reminiscently. 

102 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

"It  was  sure — h-hell  back  here  alone,  too,"  mur- 
mured a  smothered  voice  which  did  not  sound  much 
like  the  clear,  self-assertive  tones  of  Miss  Satterly. 

"Well,  it  come  near  serving  you  right,"  Weary  told 
her,  relishfully  grinning  over  the  word  she  used. 

"What  made  yuh  chase  me  off?" 

"I— don't  know;  I—" 

"I  guess  yuh  don't,  all  right,"  agreed  Weary,  giving 
a,  little  squeeze  by  way  of  making  quite  sure  he  had 
her  there.  "Say,  what  was  that  yarn  Myrt  Forsyth 
told  yuh  about  me?" 

"I— I   don't    know.      She— she    hinted    a  lot— " 

"I  expect  she  did — that's  Myrt,  e^ery  rattle  uh  the 
box,"  Weary  cut  in  dryly. 

"And  she — she  said  you  had  to  leave  home — in  the 
night—" 

"Oh,  she  did,  eh?  Well,  Girlie,  if  the  time-table 
hasn't  changed,  Miss  Myrt  Forsyth  sneaked  off  the 
same  way.  The  train  west  leaves — or  did  leave— 
Chadville  along  about  midnight,  so — Say,  it  feels 
good  to  be  back,  little  schoolma'am.  You  don't 
know  how  good — " 

103 


The     Lonesome     Trail 

"I  guess  I  do,"  cried  the  schoolma'am  very  em- 
phatically. "I  just  guess  I  know  something  about 
that,  myself.  Oh  you  dear,  great,  tall — " 

Something  happened  just  then  to  the  schoolma)am'& 
lips,  so  that  she  could  not  finish  the  sentence. 


FIRST  AID  TO  CUPlii> 

>"T"*  HE  floor  manager  had  just  called  out  that  it  was 
"ladies'  choice,"  and  Happy  Jack,  his  eyes  glued  in 
rapturous  apprehension  upon  the  thin,  expressionless 
face  of  Annie  Pilgreen,  backed  diffidently  into  a  corner. 
He  hoped  and  he  feared  that  she  would  discover  him 
and  lead  him  out  to  dance;  she  had  done  that  once,  at 
the  Labor  Day  ball,  and  he  had  not  slept  soundly  for 
several  nights  after. 

Someone  laid  proprietary  hand  upon  his  cinnamon- 
brown  coat  sleeve,  and  he  jumped  and  blushed;  it 
was  only  the  schoolma'am,  however,  smiling  up  at  him 
ingratiatingly  in  a  manner  wholly  bewildering  to  a 
simple  minded  fellow  like  Happy  Jack.  She  led  him 
into  another  corner,  plumped  gracefully  and  with  much 
decision  down  upon  a  bench,  drew  her  skirts  aside  to 

to* 


First      Aid     to       Cupid 

make  room  for  him  and  announced  that  she  was  tired 
and  wanted  a  nice  long  talk  with  him.  Happy  Jack, 
sending  a  troubled  glance  after  Annie,  who  was  leading 
Joe  Meeker  out  to  dance,  sighed  a  bit  and  sat  down 
obediently — and  thereby  walked  straight  into  the  loop 
which  the  schooima'am  had  spread  for  his  unwary  feet. 

The  schoolma'am  was  sitting  out  an  astonishing 
number  of  dances — for  a  girl  who  could  dance  from 
dark  to  dawn  and  never  turn  a  hair — and  the  women 
were  wondering  why.  If  she  had  sat  them  out  with 
Weary  Davidson  they  would  have  smiled  knowingly 
and  thought  no  more  of  it;  but  she  did  not.  For  every 
dance  she  had  a  different  companion,  and  in  every  case 
it  ended  in  that  particular  young  man  looking  rather 
scared  and  unhappy.  After  five  minutes  of  low-toned 
monologue  on  the  part  of  the  schoolma'am,  Happy 
Jack  went  the  way  of  his  predecessors  and  also  became 
Beared  ana  unhappy. 

"Aw,  say!  Miss  Satterly,  /  can't  act/'  he  protested  in 
a  panic. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  could,"  declared  the  schoolma'am 
with  sweet  assurance,  "  if  you  only  thought  so." 

106 


First      Aid     to       Cupid 

"Aw,  I  couldn't  get  up  before  a  crowd  and  say  a 
piece,  not  if — " 

"I'm  not  sure  I  want  you  to.  There  are  other 
things  to  an  entertainment  besides  reciting  things 
I  only  want  you  to  promise  that  you  will  help  me  out. 
You  will,  won't  you?"  The  schoolma'am's  eyes, 
besides  being  pretty,  were  often  disconcertingly  direct 
in  their  gaze. 

Happy  Jack  wriggled  and  looked  toward  the  door, 
which  suddenly  seemed  a  very  long  way  off.  "I — • 
I've  got  to  go  up  to  the  Falls,  along  about  Christmas," 
he  stuttered  feebly,  avoiding  her  eyes.  "I — I  can't 
get  off  any  other  time,  and  I've — I've  got  a  tooth — " 

"You're  the  fifth  Flying-U  man  who  has*  a  tooth/7' 
the  schoolma'am  interrupted  impatiently.  *'A  dentist 
ought  to  locate  in  Dry  Lake;  from  what  I  have  heard 
confidentially  to-night,  there's  a  fortune  to  be  made  off 
the  teeth  of  the  Happy  Family  alone. " 

Every  drop  of  blood  in  Happy's  body  seemed  to 
stand  then  in  his  face.  "I — I'll  pull  the  curtain  for 
yuh,"  he  volunteered,  meekly. 

"You're  the  seventh  applicant  for  that  place."   The 
107 


First      Aid     to       Cupid 

schoolma'am  was  crushingly  calm.  "Every  fellow 
I've  spoken  to  has  evinced  a  morbid  craving  for  cur- 
tain-pulling." 

Happy  Jack  crumpled  under  her  sarcasm  and  per- 
spired, and  tried  to  think  of  something,  with  his  brain 
quite  paralyzed  and  useless. 

The  schoolma'am  continued  inexorably;  plainly, 
her  brain  was  not  paralyzed.  "I've  promised  the 
neighborhood  that  I  would  give  a  Christmas  tree  and 
entertainment — and  when  a  school-teacher  promises 
anything  to  a  neighborhood,  nothing  short  of  death  or 
smallpox  will  be  accepted  as  an  excuse  for  failing  to 
keep  the  promise;  and  I've  seven  tongue-tied  kids  to 
work  with!"  (The  schoolma'am  was  only  spasmodical^ 
given  to  irreproachable  English.)  "Of  course,  I  relied 
upon  my  friends  to  help  me  out.  But  when  I  come  to 
calling  the  roll,  I — I  don't  seem  to  have  any  friends." 
The  schoolma'am  was  twirling  the  Montana  sapphiie 
ring  which  Weary  had  given  her  last  spring,  and  her 
voice  was  trembly  and  made  Happy  Jack  feel  vaguely 
that  he  was  a  low-down  cur  and  ought  to  be  killed. 

He  swallowed  twice.  "Aw,  yuh  don't  want  to  go 
108 


First      Aid     to       Cupid 

and  feel  bad  about  it;  I  never  meant — I'll  do  .anything 
yuh  ask  me  to." 

"Thank  you.  I  knew  I  could  count  upon  you, 
fack." 

The  schoolma'am  recovered  her  spirits  with  a 
promptness  that  was  suspicious;  patted  his  arm  and 
called  him  an  awfully  good  fellow,  which  reduced 
Happy  Jack  to  a  state  just  this  side  imbecility.  Also, 
she  drew  a  little  memorandum  book  from  somewhere, 
and  wrote  Happy  Jack's  name  in  clear,  convincing 
characters  that  made  him  shiver.  He  saw  other  names 
above  his  own  on  the  page;  quite  a  lot  of  them;  seven  in 
fact.  Miss  Satterly,  evidently,  was  not  quite  as  des- 
titute of  friends  as  her  voice,  awhile  back,  would  lead 
one  to  believe.  Happy  Jack  wondered. 

"I  haven't  quite  decided  what  we  will  have,"  she 
remarked  briskly.  "When  I  do,  we'll  all  meet  some 
evening  in  the  school-house  and  talk  it  over.  There's 
lots  of  fun  getting  up  an  entertainment;  you'll  like  it, 
once  you  get  started." 

Happy  did  not  agree  with  her,  but  he  did  not  tell  her 
so;  he  managed  to  contort  his  face  into  something  re- 

109 


First      Aid     t  o       C  u  p  i  o 

sembling  a  grin,  and  retreated  to  the  hotel,  where  he 
swallowed  two  glasses  of  whiskey  to  start  his  blood 
moving  again,  and  then  sat  down  and  played  poker 
disasterously  until  daylight  made  the  lamps  grow  a 
sickly  yellow  and  the  air  of  the  room  seem  suddenly 
stale  and  dead.  But  Happy  never  thought  of  blaming 
the  schoolma'am  for  the  eighteen  dollars  he  lost. 

Neither  did  he  blame  her  for  the  nightmares  which 
tormented  his  sleep  during  the  week  that  followed 
or  the  vague  uneasiness  that  filled  his  waking  hour, 
even  when  he  was  not  thinking  directly  of  the  ghost 
that  dogged  him.  For  wherever  he  went,  or  whatever 
he  did,  Happy  Jack  was  conscious  of  the  fact  that  his 
name  was  down  on  the  schoolma'am's  list  and  he  was 
definitely  committed  to  do  anything  she  asked  him  to 
do,  even  to  "  speaking  a  piece' ' — which  was  in  his  eyes 
the  acme  of  mental  torture. 

When  Cal  Emmett,  probably  thinking  of  Miss 
Satferly's  little  book,  pensively  warbled  in  his  ear: 

Is  your  name  written  there, 
On  the  page  white  and  fair? 

Happy    Jack  made  no   reply,    though   he   suddenly 

no 


' 


First      Aid     to       Cupid 

felt     chilly    along     the     spinal    column.        It    was. 

"  Schoolma'am  wants  us  all  to  go  over  to  the  school* 
house  tonight — seven-thirty,  sharp —  to  help  make 
nedicine  over  this  Santa  Claus  round-up.  Slim,  she 
says  you've  got  to  be  Santy  and  come  down  the  stove- 
pipe and  give  the  kids  fits  and  popcorn  strung  on  a 
string.  She  says  you've  got  the  figure."  Weary 
splashed  into  the  wash  basin  like  a  startled  muskrat. 

The  Happy  Family  looked  at  one  another  distress- 
fully. 

"By  golly,"  Slim  gulped,  "you  can  just  tell  the 
schoolma'am  to  go  plumb — •"  (Weary  faced  him  sudden- 
ly, his  brown  hair  running  rivulets)  *  'and  ask  the  Old 
Man,"  finished  Slim  hurriedly.  "He's  fifteen  pounds 
fatter  3n  I  be." 

"Go  tell  her  yourself,"  said  Weary,  appeased.  "I 
promised  her  you'd  all  be  there  on  time,  if  I  had  to 
hog-tie  the  whole  bunch  and  haul  yuh  over  in  the 
hayrack."  He  dried  his  face  and  hands  leisurely  and 
regarded  the  solemn  group.  "Oh,  mamma!  you're 
sure  a  nervy-looking  bunch  uh  dogies.  Yuh  look 
like—'* 

in 


First      Aid     to       Cupid 

"Maybe  you'll  hog-tie  the  whole  bunch,"  Jack 
Bates  observed  irritably,  "but  if  yuh  do,  you'll  sure 
be  late  to  meeting,  sonny!" 

The  Happy  Family  laughed  feeble  acquiescence. 

"  I  won 't  need  to, "  Weary  told  them  blandly.  "  You 
all  gave  the  schoolma'am  leave  to  put  down  your  names, 
and  it's  up  to  you  to  make  good.  If  yuh  haven't  got 
nerve  enough  to  stay  in  the  game  till  the  deck's  shuffled 
yuh  hadn't  any  right  to  buy  a  stack  uh  chips. " 

"Yeah— that's  right,"  Cal  Emmett  admitted  frank- 
ly, because  shyness  and  Cal  were  strangers.  "The 
Happy  Family  sure  ought  to  put  this  thing  through  a- 
whirling.  We'll  give  'em  vaudeville  till  their  eyes 
water  and  their  hands  are  plumb  blistered  applauding 
the  show.  Happy,  you're  it.  You've  got  to  do  a  toe 
dance." 

Happy  Jack  grinned  in  sickly  fashion  and  sought 
out  his  red  necktie. 

"Say,  Weary,"  spoke  up  Jack  Bates,  "ain't  there 
going  to  be  any  female  girls  in  this  opera  troupe?" 

"Sure.  The  Little  Doctor's  going  to  help  run  the 
thing,  and  Rena  Jackson  and  Len  Adams  are  in  it— 

112 


First      Aid     to       Cupid 

and  Annie  Pilgreen.  Her  and  Happy  are  down  on  the 
program  for  *  Under  the  Mistletoe',  a  tableau — the 
*ed  fire,  kiss-me-quick  brand." 

"Aw  gwan!"  cried  Happy  Jack,  much  distressed 
and  not  observing  Weary  7s  lowered  eyelid. 

His  perturbed  face  and  manner  gave  the  Happy 
Family  an  idea.  An  idea,  when  entertained  by  the 
Happy  Family,  was  a  synonym  for  great  mental  agony 
on  the  part  of  the  object  of  the  thought,  and  great 
enjoyment  on  the  part  of  the  Family. 

"That's  right,"  Weary  assured  him  sweetly,  urged 
to  further  deceit  by  the  manifest  approval  of  his  friends. 
"Annie's  ready  and  willing  to  do  her  part,  but  she's 
afraid  you  h?ven't  got  the  nerve  to  go  through  with  it; 
but  the  schoolina'am  says  you'll  have  to  anyhow,  be- 
cause you're  name's  down  and  you  told  her  distinct 
you'd  do  anything  she  asked  yuh  to.  Annie  likes  yuh 
a  heap,  Happy;  she  said  so.  Only  she  don't  like  the 
,way  yuh  hang  back  on  the  halter.  She  told  me, 
private,  that  she  wished  yuh  wasn't  so  bashful." 

"Aw,  gwan!"  adjured  Happy  Jack  again,  because 
that  was  his  only  form  of  repartee. 


First      Aid     to       Cupid 

"If  I  had  a  girl  like  Annie—" 

"Aw,  I  never  said  I  had  a  girl!" 

"It  wouldn't  take  me  more  than  two  minutes  to 
convince  her  I  wasn't  as  scared  as  I  looked.  You 
can  gamble  I'd  go  through  with  that  living  picture, 
and  I'd  sure  kiss — " 

"Aw,  gwari.  I  ain't  stampeding  clear  to  salt  water 
'cause  she  said  'Boo!'  at  me — and  I  don't  need  no 
^ayuse  t'  show  me  the  trail  to  a  girl's  house — " 

At  this  point,  Weary  succeeded  in  getting  a  strangle- 
hold and  the  discussion  ended  rather  abruptly — as 
they  had  a  way  of  doing  in  the  Flying  U  bunk-house. 

Over  at  the  school-house  that  night,  when  Miss 
Satterly's  little,  gold  watch  told  her  it  was  seven-thirty, 
she  came  out  of  the  corner  where  she  had  been  whisper- 
ing with  the  Little  Doctor  and  faced  a  select,  anxious- 
eyed  audience.  Even  Weary  was  not  as  much  at  ease 
as  he  would  have  one  believe,  and  for  the  others — they 
were  limp  and  miserable. 

She  went  straight  at  her  subject.  They  all  knew 
what  they  were  there  for,  she  told  them,  and  her  audience 
looked  her  unwinkingly  in  the  eye.  They  did  not 

114 


First      Aid     to       Cupid 

know  what  they  were  there  for,  but  they  felt  that 
they  were  prepared  for  the  worst.  Cal  Emmett  went 
mentally  over  the  only  " piece"  he  knew,  which  he 
thought  he  might  be  called  upon  to  speak.  It  was 
the  one  beginning,  according  to  Cal's  version: 
Twinkle,  Twinkle  little  star, 

What  in  thunder  are  you  at? 
There  were  thirteen  verses,  and  it  was  not  particularly 

adapted  to  a  Christmas  entertainment. 

The  schoolma'am  went  on  explaining.  There  would 
be  tableaux,  she  said  (whereat  Happy  Jack  came  near 
swallowing  his  tongue)  and  the  Jarley  Wax-works. 

•  'What're  them  ?' '  Slim,  leaning  awkwardly  forward 
and  blinking  up  at  her,  interrupted  stolidly.  Every- 
one took  advantage  of  the  break  and  breathed  deeply. 

The  schoolma'am  told  them  what  were  the  Jarley 
Wax- works,  and  even  reverted  to  Dickens  and  gave  a 
vivid  sketch  of  the  original  Mrs.  Jarley.  The  audience 
anally  understood  that  they  would  represent  wax  figures  of 
noted  characters,  would  stand  still  and  let  Mrs.  Jarley 
talk  about  them — without  the  satisfaction  of  talking 
back — and  that  they  would  be  wound  up  at  the  psy- 


First      Aid     to       Cupid 

chological  moment,  when  they  would  be  expected  to 
go  through  a  certain  set  of  motions  alleged  to  portray 
the  last  conscious  acts  of  the  characters  they  repre- 
sented. 

The  schoolma'am  sat  down  sidewise  upon  a  desk, 
swung  a  neat  little  foot  unconventionally  and  grew  con- 
fidential, and  the  Happy  Family  knew  they  were  in 
for  it. 

"Will  Davidson"  (which  was  Weary)  "is  the  tallest 
fellow  in  the  lot,  so  he  must  be  the  Japanese  Dwarf 
and  eat  poisoned  rice  out  of  a  chopping  bowl,  with 
a  wooden  spoon — the  biggest  we  can  find,"  she  an- 
nounced authoritatively,  and  they  grinned  at  Weary. 

"Mr.  Bennett,"  Cwhichwas  Chip)  "you  can  assume 
a  most  murderous  expression,  so  we'll  allow  you  to  be 
Captain  Kidd  and  threaten  to  slay  your  Little  Doctor 
with  a  wooden  sword — if  we  can't  get  hold  of  a  real 
one." 

"Thanks,"  said  Chip,  with  doubtful  gratitude. 

"Mr.  Emmett,  we'll  ask  you  to  be  Mrs.  Jarley  and 
deliver  the  lectures." 

When  they  heard  that  the  Happy  Family  howled 
116 


F  i  r  s  t      Aid     to       Cupid 

derision  at  Cal,  who  got  red  in  the  face  in  spite  of  him- 
self. The  worst  was  over.  The  victims  scented  fun  in 
the  thing  and  perked  up,  and  the  schoolma'am  breathed 
relief,  for  she  knew  the  crowd.  Things  woxild  go  with 
a  swing,  after  this,  and  success  was,  barring  accidents^ 
a  foregone  conclusion. 

Through  all  the  clatter  and  cross-fire  of  jibes  Happy 
Jack  sat,  nervous  and  distrait,  in  the  seat  nearest  the 
door  and  farthest  from  Annie  Pilgreen.  The  pot- 
bellied «tove  yawned  red-mouthed  at  him,  a  scant 
three  feet  away.  Someone  coming  in  chilled  with 
the  nipping  night  air  had  shoveled  in  coal  with  lavish 
hand,  so  that  the  stove  door  had  to  be  thrown  open  as 
the  readiest  method  of  keeping  the  stove  from  melting 
where  it  stood.  Its  body,  swelling  out  corpulently 
below  the  iron  belt,  glowed  red;  and  Happy  Jack's 
wolf-skin  overcoat  was  beginning  to  exhale  a  rank, 
animal  odor.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  he  might 
change  his  seat;  he  unbuttoned  the  coat  absently  and 
perspired. 

He  was  waiting  to  see  if  the  schoolma'arn  said  any- 
thing about  "Under  the  Mistletoe"  with  red  fire— 

117 


First      Aid     to       Cupid 

and  Annie  Pilgreen.    If  she  did,  Happy  Jack  meant 
to  get  out  of  the  house  with  the  least  possible  delay , 
for  he  knew  well  that  no  man  might  face  the  school 
ma'am's  direct  gaze  and  refuse  to  do  her  bidding. 

So  far  the  Jarley  Wax-works  held  the  undivided 
attention  of  all  save  Happy  Jack;  to  him  there  were  other 
things  more  important.  Even  when  he  was  informed 
that  he  must  be  the  Chinese  Giant  and  stand  upon  a 
coal-oil  box  for  added  height,  arrayed  in  one  of  the 
big-flowered  calico  curtains  which  Annie  Pilgreen  said 
she  could  bring,  he  was  apathetic.  He  would  be  re- 
quired to  swing  his  head  slowly  from  side  to  side  when 
wound  up — very  well,  it  looked  easy  enough.  He 
would  not  have  to  say  a  word,  and  he  supposed  he 
might  shut  his  eyes  if  he  felt  like  it. 

"As  for  the  tableaux" — Happy  Jack  felt  a  prickling 
of  the  scalp  and  measured  mentally  the  distance  to  the 
ioor — "We  can  arrange  them  later,  for  they  will  not 
require  any  rehearsing.  The  Wax-works  we  must 
get  to  work  on  as  soon  as  possible.  How  often  can 
you  come  and  rehearse?" 

"  Every  night  and  all  day  Sundays,"  Weary  drawled 
118 


First      Aid     toCupid 

Miss  Satterly  frowned  him  into  good  behavior  and 
said  twice  a  week  would  do. 

Happy  Jack  slipped  out  and  went  home  feeling  like 
a  reprieved  criminal;  he  even  tried  to  argue  himseli 
into  the  belief  that  Weary  was  only  loading  him  and 
didn't  mean  a  word  he  said.  Still,  the  schoolma'am 
had  said  there  would  be  tableaux,  and  it  was  a  cinch 
she  would  tell  Weary  all  about  it — seeing  they  were 
engaged.  Weary  was  the  kind  that  found  out  things: 
anyway. 

What  worried  Happy  Jack  most  was  trying  to  dis- 
cover how  the  dickens  Weary  found  out  he  liked  Annie 
Pilgreen;  that  was  a  secret  which  Happy  Jack  had  almost 
succeeded  in  keeping  from  himself,  even.  He  would 
have  bet  money  no  one  else  suspected  it — and  yet  here 
was  Weary  grinning  and  telling  him  he  and  Annie  were 
cut  out  for  a  tableau  together.  Happy  Jack  pondered 
till  he  got  a  headache,  and  he  did  not  come  to  any  satis 
factory  conclusion  with  himself,  even  then.  <• 

The  rest  of  the  Happy  Family  stayed  late  at  the 
school-house,  and  Weary  and  Chip  discussed  some- 
thing enthusiastically  in  a  corner  with  the  Little  Doctor 

119 


r  *  r  s  t     Aid     to      Cupid 

and  the  schoolma'am.  The  Little  Doctor  said  that 
something  was  a  shame,  and  that  it  was  mean  tc  tease 
a  fellow  as  bashful  as  Happy  Jack. 

Weary  urged  that  sometimes  Cupid  needed  a  help 
ing  hand,  and  that  it  would  really  be  doing  Happy  a 
big  favor,  even  if  he  didn't  appreciate  it  at  the  time. 
So  in  the  end  the  girls  agreed  and  the  thing  was  settled. 

The  Happy  Family  rode  home  in  the  crisp  starlight, 
Burgling  and  leaning  over  their  saddle-horns  in  spas- 
modic fits  of  laughter.  But  when  they  trooped  into 
the  bunk-house  they  might  have  been  deacons  returning 
from  prayer  meeting  sc  far  as  their  decorous  behavior 
was  concerned.  Happy  Jack  was  in  bed,  covered  to 
his  ears  and  he  had  his  face  to  the  wall.  They  cast 
covert  glances  at  his  carroty  top-knot  and  went  silently 
to  bed — which  was  contrary  to  habit. 

At  the  third  rehearsal,  just  as  the  Chinese  Giant 
itepped  off  the  coal-oil  box — thereby  robbing  himself 
miraculously  of  two  feet  of  stature — the  schoolma'am 
approached  him  with  a  look  in  her  big  eyes  that  set  him 
shivering.  When  she  laid  a  finger  mysteriously  upon 
his  arm  and  drew  him  into  the  corner  sacred  to  secret 

120 


First      Aid     to       Cupid 

consultations,  the  forehead  of  Happy  Jack  resembled 
the  outside  of  a  stone  water-jar  in  hot  weather.  He 
knew  beforehand  just  about  what  she  would  say.  It 
was  the  tableau  that  had  tormented  his  sleep  and  made 
his  days  a  misery  for  the  last  ten  days — the  tableau 
with  red  fire  and  Annie  Pilgreen. 

Miss  Satterly  told  him  that  she  had  already  spoken 
to  Annie,  and  that  Annie  was  willing  if  Happy  Jack  had 
no  objections.  Happy  Jack  had,  but  he  could  not 
bring  himself  to  mention  the  fact. 

The  schoolma'am  had  not  quoted  Annie's  reply 
verbatim,  bu*  that  was  mere  detail.  When  she  had 
asked  Annie  ":  »he  would  take  part  in  a  tableau  with 
Happy  Jack,  Annie  had  dropped  her  pale  eyelids  and 
said :  "  Yes,  ma'am."  Still  it  was  as  much  as  the  school- 
ma'am,  knowing  Annie,  could  justly  expect. 

Annie  Pilgreen  was  an  anaemic  sort  of  creature  with 
pale  eyes,  ash-colored  hair  that  clung  damply  to  her 
head,  and  a  colorless  complexion;  her  conversational 
powers  were  limited  to  "Yes,  sir"  and  "No,  sir"  (or 
Ma'am  if  sex  demanded  and  Annie  remembered 
in  time).  But  Happy  Jack  loved  her;  and  when  a 

121 


First      Aid     t  o       C  u  p  i d 

woman  loves  and  is  loved,  her  existence  surely  is 
justified  for  all  time. 

Happy  Jack  sent  a  despairing  glance  of  appeal  at 
the  Happy  Family;  but  the  Family  was  very  much 
engaged,  down  by  the  stove.  Cal  Emmett  was  fanning 
himself  with  Mrs.  Jarley's  poppy-loaded  bonnet  and 
refreshing  his  halting  memory  of  the  lecture  with 
sundry  promptings  from  Len  Adams  who  held  the 
book.  Chip  Bennett  was  whittling  his  sword  into  shape 
and  Weary  was  drumming  a  tattoo  in  the  great  wooden 
bowl  with  the  spoon  he  used  to  devour  poisoned  rice 
upon  the  stage.  The  others  were  variously  engaged; 
not  one  of  them  appeared  conscious  :>f  the  fact  that 
Happy  Jack  was  facing  the  tragedy  of  his  bashful  life. 

Before  he  realized  it,  Miss  Satterly  had  somehow 
managed  to  worm  from  him  a  promise,  and  after  that 
nothing  mattered.  The  Wax-works,  the  tree,  the  whole 
entertainment  dissolved  into  a  blurred  background, 
against  which  he  was  to  stand  with  Annie  Pilgreen,  for 
the  amusement  of  his  neighbors,  who  would  stamp 
their  feet  and  shout  derisive  things  at  him.  Very 
likely  he  would  be  subjected  to  ihe  agony  of  an  encore, 

122 


First      Aid     to       Cupid 

and  he  knew,  beyond  all  doubt,  that  he  would  never  be 
permitted  to  forget  the  figure  he  should  cut;  for  Happy 
Jack  knew  he  was  as  unbeautiful  as  a  hippopotamus 
and  as  awkward.  He  wondered  why  he>  of  all  the 
fellows  who  were  to  take  part,  should  be  chosen  for 
that  tableau;  it  seemed  to  him  they  ought  to  pick  out 
someone  who  was  at  least  passably  good-looking  and 
hadn't  such  big,  red  hands  and  such  immense  feet. 
His  plodding  brain  revolved  the  mystery  slowly  and 
persistently. 

When  he  remounted  his  wooden  pedestal,  thereby 
transforming  himself  into  a  Chinese  Giant  of  wax,  he 
looked  the  part.  Where  the  other  statues  broke  into 
giggles,  to  the  detriment  of  their  mechanical  perfection, 
or  squirmed  visibly  when  the  broken  alarm  clock 
whirred  its  signal  against  the  small  of  their  backs, 
Happy  Jack  stood  immovably  upright,  a  gigantic 
figure  with  features  inhumanly  stolid.  The  school- 
ma'am  pointed  him  out  as  an  example  to  the  others, 
and  pronounced  him  enthusiastically  the  best  actor 
in  the  lot. 

"Happy's  swallowed  his  medicine — that's  what  ails 
123 


First     Aid     to      Cupid 

him,"  the  Japanese  Dwarf  whispered  to  Captain  Kidd, 
and  grinned, 

The  Captain  turned  his  head  and  studied  the  brooding 
features  of  the  giant  "He's  doing  some  thinking,"  he 
decided.  "When  he  gets  the  thing  figured  out,  in  six 
months  or  a  year,  and  savvies  it  was  a  put-up  job  from 
the  start,  somebody'll  have  it  coming." 

"He  can't  pulverize  the  whole  bunch,  and  he'll 
never  wise  up  to  who's  the  real  sinner,"  Weary  com- 
forted himself. 

"Don't  you  believe  it  Happy  doesn't  think  very 
often;  when  he  does  though,  he  can  ring  the  bell- 
give  him  time  enough." 

"Here,  you  statues  over  there  want  to  let  up  on  the 
chin-whacking  or  I'll  hand  yuh  a  few  with  this,"  com- 
manded Mrs.  Jarky,  and  shook  the  stove-pokei 
threateningly. 

The  Japanese  Dwarf  returned  to  his  poisoned  rics 
(•and  Captain  Kidd  apologized  to  his  victim,  who  was 
frowning  reproof  at  him,  and  the  rehearsal  proceeded 
haltingly. 

That  night,  Weary  rode  home  beside  Happy  Jack 
124 


First      Aid     to       Cupid 

nd  tried  to  lift  him  out  of  the  slough  of  despond. 
But  Happy  refused  to  budge,  mentally,  an  inch.  He 
?ode  humped  in  the  saddle  like  a  calf  in  its  first  bliz- 

;d,  and  he  was  discouragingly  unresponsive;  except 
once,  when  Weary  reminded  him  that  the  tableau 
would  need  no  rehearsing  and  that  it  would  only  last 
A  minute,  anyway,  and  wouldn't  hurt.  Whereupon 
Happy  jack  straightened  and  eyed  him  meditatively 
and  finally  growled,  "Aw  gwan;  I  betche  you  put  her 
ap  to  it,  yuh  darned  chump." 

After  that  Weary  galloped  ahead  and  overtook  the 
jthers  and  told  them  Happy  Jack  was  thinking  and 
mustn't  be  disturbed,  and  that  he  thought  it  would  not 
be  fatal  to  anyone,  though  it  was  kinda  hard  on  Happy. 

From  that  night  till  Christmas  eve,  Happy  Jack 
sontinued  to  think.  It  was  not,  however,  till  the  night 
of  the  entertainment,  when  he  was  riding  gloomily 
;*lone  on  his  way  to  the  school-house,  that  Happy 
Jack  really  felt  that  his  brain  had  struck  pay  dirt 
He  took  oft  his  hat,  slapped  his  horse  affectionately 
over  the  ears  with  it  and  grinned  for  the  first  time 
since  the  Thanksgiving  dance.  "Yes  sir,"  he  said 

125 


First      Aid     to      Cupid 

emphatically  aloud,  "I  betche  that's  how  it  is,  all  right 
and  I  betche—" 

The  schoolma'am,  her  cheeks  becomingly  pink 
from  excitement,  fluttered  behind  the  curtain  lor  a 
last,  flurried  survey  of  stage  properties  and  actors, 
" Isn't  Johnny  here,  yet?"  she  asked  of  Annie  Pilgreen 
who  had  just  come  and  still  bore  about  her  a  whiff  of 
frosty,  night  air.  Jolmny  was  first  upon  the  program, 
with  a  ready-made  address  beginning,  "Kind  friends, 
we  bid  you  welcome  on  this  gladsome  day,"  and  the 
time  for  its  delivery  was  overdue. 

Out  beyond  the  curtain  the  Kind  Friends  were 
waxing  impatient  and  the  juvenile  contingent  was 
showing  violent  symptoms  of  descending  prematurely 
upon  the  glittering  little  fir  tree  which  stood  in  a  corner 
next  the  stage.  Back  near  the  door,  feet  were  scuf- 
fling audibly  upon  the  bare  floor  and  a  suppressed 
whistle  occasionally  cut  into  the  hum  of  subdueo 
voices.  Miss  Satterly  was  growing  nervous  at  the 
delay,  and  she  repeated  her  question  impatiently  to 
Annie,  who  was  staring  at  nothing  very  intently,  as 
slv  had  a  fashion  of  doing. 

126 


First      Aid     to      Cupid 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  she  answered  absently.  Then,  as  an 
afterthought,  "He's  outside,  talking  to  Happy  Jack." 

Annie  was  mistaken;  Happy  Jack  was  talking  to 
Johnny.  The  schoolma'am  tried  to  look  through  a 
frosted  window. 

"I  do  wish  they'd  hurry  in;  it's  getting  late,  and 
everybody's  here  and  waiting."  She  looked  at  her 
watch.  The  suppressed  whistle  back  near  the  door 
was  gaining  volume  and  insistence. 

"Can't  we  turn  her  loose,  Girlie?"  Weary  came 
up  and  laid  a  hand  caressingly  upon  her  shoulder. 

"  Johnny  isn't  here,  yet,  and  he's  to  give  the  address 
of  welcome.  Why  must  people  whistle  and  make  a 
fuss  like  that,  Will?" 

"They're  just  mad  because  they  aren't  in  the  show,'* 
said  Weary.  "  Say,  can't  we  cut  out  the  welcome  and 
sail  in  anyway  ?  I'm  getting  kinda  shaky,  dreading  it." 

The  schoolma'am  shook  her  head.  It  would  not  do 
to  leave  out  Johnny — and  besides,  country  entertain- 
ments demanded  the  usual  Address  of  Welcome.  It 
is  never  pleasant  to  trifle  with  an  unwritten  law  like 
that.  She  looked  again  at  her  watch  and  waited; 

127 


First      Aid      to      Cupid 

the   audience,    being    perfectly  helpless,  waited    also. 

Weary,  listening  to  the  whistling  and  the  shuffling  of 
feet,  felt  a  queer,  qualmy  feeling  in  the  region  of  his 
diaphragm,  and  he  yielded  to  a  hunger  for  consolation 
and  company  in  his  misery.  He  edged  over  to  where 
Chip  and  Cal  were  amusing  themselves  by  peeping 
at  the  audience  from  behind  the  tree. 

"Say,  how  do  yuh  stack  up,  Cal?"  he  whispered, 
forlornly. 

"Pretty  lucky,"  Cal  told  him  inattentively,  and 
the  cheerfulness  of  his  whole  aspect  grieved  Weary 
sorely.  But  then,  he  explained  to  himself,  Cal  always 
did  have  the  nerve  of  a  mule. 

Weary  sighed  and  wondered  what  in  thunder  ailed 
him,  anyway;  he  was  uncertain  whether  he  was  sick, 
or  just  plain  scared.  "Feel  all  right,  Chip?"  he 
pursued,  anxiously. 

"Sure,"  said  Chip,  with  characteristic  brevity.  "1 
Bonder  who  those  silver-mounted  spurs  are  for,  there 
m  the  tree?  They've  been  put  on  since  this  afternoon 
^-can't  yuh  stretch  your  neck  enough  to  read  the  name, 
Cal?  They're  the  real  thing,  all  right" 

128 


First      Aid     to       Cupid 

Weary 's  dejection  became  more  pronounced.  •'  Oh, 
mamma!  am  I  the  only  knock-kneed  son-of-a-gun  in 
this  crowd?"  he  murmured,  and  turned  disconsolately 
away.  His  spine  was  creepy  cold  with  stage  fright; 
he  listened  to  the  sounds  beyond  the  shielding  curtain 
and  shivered. 

Just  then  Johnny  and  Happy  Jack  appeared  look- 
ing rather  red  and  guilty,  and  Johnny  was  thrust  un- 
ceremoniously forward  to  welcome  his  kind  friends 
and  still  the  rising  clamor. 

Things  went  smoothly  after  that.  It  is  true  that 
Weary,  as  the  Japanese  Dwarf,  halted  the  Wax- works 
and  glared  glassily  at  the  faces  staring  back  at  him 
while  the  alarm  clock  buzzed  unheeded  against  his 
spine.  Mrs.  Jarley,  however,  was  equal  to  the  emer- 
gency. She  proceeded  calmly  to  wind  him  up  the 
second  time,  gave  Weary  an  admonitory  kick  and 
whispered,  "Come  alive,  yuh  chump,"  and  turned  to 
the  audience. 

"This  here  Japanese  Dwarf  I  got  second-handed 
at  a  bargain  sale  for  three-forty-nine,  marked  down 
for  one  week  only,"  she  explained  blandly.  "I  got 

129 


First      Aid     to       Cupid 

cheated  like  h — like  I  always  do  at  them  bargain  sales, 
for  it's  about  wore  out.  I  guess  I  can  make  the  thing 
work  well  enough  to  show  yuh  what  it's  meant  to 
represent,  though."  She  gave  Weary  another  kick, 
commanded  him  again  to  "Come  out  of  it  and  gel 
busy,"  and  the  Dwarf  obediently  ate  its  allotted  por- 
tion of  poison.  And  every  one  applauded  Weary 
more  enthusiastically  than  they  had  the  others,  for 
they  thought  it  was  all  his  part.  So  much  for 
justice. 

" Our  last  selection  will  be  a  tableau  entitled,  'Under 
the  Mistletoe,"'  announced  the  schoolma'am's  clear 
tones.  Then  she  took  up  her  guitar  and  went  down 
from  the  stage  to  where  the  Little  Doctor  waited  with 
her  mandolin.  While  the  tableau  was  being  arranged 
they  meant  to  play  together  in  lieu  of  a  regular  or- 
chestra. The  schoolma'am's  brow  was  smooth,  for 
the  entertainment  had  been  a  success  so  far;  and  the 
tableau  would  be  all  right,  she  was  sure — for  Wear) 
had  charge  of  that.  She  hoped  that  Happy  Jack 
would  not  hate  it  so  ^ery  much,  and  that  it  would  help 
to  break  the  ice  between  him  and  Annie  Pilgreen.  So 

130 


First      Aid     to       Cupid 

she  plucked  the  guitar  strings  tentatively  and  began  to 
play. 

Behind  the  curtain,  Annie  Pilgreen  stood  simpering 
in  her  place  and  Happy  Jack  went  reluctantly  forward, 
resigned  and  deplorably  inefficient.  Weary,  himself 
again  now  that  his  torment  was  over,  posed  him  cheer- 
fully. But  Happy  Jack  did  not  get  the  idea.  He 
stood,  as  Weary  told  him  disgustedly,  looking  like  a 
hitching-post.  Weary  labored  with  him  desperately, 
his  ear  strained  to  keep  in  touch  with  the  music  which 
would,  at  the  proper  time,  die  to  a  murmur  which 
would  be  a  signal  for  the  red  fire  and  the  tableau.  Ai- 
ready  the  lamps  were  being  turned  low,  out  there  beyond 
the  curtain. 

Though  it  was  primarily  a  scheme  of  torture  for 
Happy  Jack,  Weary  was  anxious  that  it  should  be 
technically  perfect.  He  became  impatient.  "  Say,  don't 
stand  there  like  a  kink-necked  horse,  Happy!"  he 
.mplored  under  his  breath.  "Ain't  there  any  joints 
in  your  arms?" 

"I  ain't  never  practised  it,"  Happy  Jack  protested 
In  a  hoarse  whisper.  "  I  never  even  seen  a  tableau  in 


First      Aid     to       Cupid 

my  life,  even.  If  somebody 'd  show  me  once,  so's  I 
could  get  the  hang  of  it — " 

"Oh,  mamma!  you're  a  peach,  all  right.  Here, 
give  me  that  sage  brush!  Now,  watch.  We  haven't 
got  all  night  to  make  medicine  over  it.  See?  Yuh 
want  to  hold  it  over  her  head  and  kinda  bend  down, 
like  yuh  were  daring  yourself  to  kiss — " 

Happy  Jack  backed  off  to  get  the  effect;  incidentally, 
he  took  the  curtain  back  with  him;  also  incidentally — , 
Johnny  dropped  a  match  into  the  red  fire,  which  glowed 
beautifully.  Weary  caught  his  breath,  but  he  was 
game  and  never  moved  any  eyelash. 

The  red  glow  faded  and  left  an  abominable  smell 
behind  it,  and  some  mercitul  hand  drew  the  curtain — 
but  it  was  not  the  hand  of  Happy  Jack.  He  had  gone 
out  through  the  window  and  was  crouching  beneath  it 
drinking  in  greedily  the  hand-clapping  and  the  stamp- 
ing of  feet  and  the  whistling,  with  occasional  shouts  of 
mirth  which  he  recognized  as  coming  from  the  rest  <*f 
the  Happy  Family.  It  all  sounded  very  sweet  to  the 
great,  red  ears  of  Happy  Jack. 

When  the  clatter  showed  signs  of  abatement  he  stole 
132 


First      Aid     to      Cupid 

away  to  where  his  horse  was  tied,  his  sorrel  coat  gleam- 
ing with  frost  sparkles  in  the  moonlight.  "It's  yon 
and  me  to  hit  the  trail,  Spider,"  he  croaked  to  the 
horse,  and  with  his  bare  hand  scraped  the  frost  fron. 
the  saddle. 

A  tall  figure  crept  up  from  behind  and  grappled  witfc 
him.  Spider  danced  away  as  far  as  the  rope  'vould 
permit  and  snorted,  and  two  struggling  forms  squirmed 
away  from  his  untrustworthy  heels. 

"Aw,  leggo!"  cried  Happy  Jack  when  he  could 
breathe  again. 

"I  won't.  YouVe  got  to  come  back  and  square 
yourself  with  Annie.  How  do  yuh  reckon  she's  feeling 
at  the  trick  yuh  played  on  her,  yuh  lop-eared — " 

Happy  Jack  jerked  loose  and  stood  grinning  in  the 
moonlight.  "Aw,  gwan.  Annie  knowed  I  was  goin* 
to  do  it,"  he  retorted,  loftily.  "Annie  and  me's  en- 
gaged." He  got  into  the  saddle  and  rode  off,  shouting 
back  taunts. 

Weary  stood  bareheaded  in  the  cold  and  stared  after 
him  blankly. 


133 


WHEN  THE  COOK  FELL  ILL 

TT  was  four  o'clock,  and  there  was  consternation  in 
the  round-up  camp  of  the  Flying  U;  when  one  eats 
breakfast  before  dawn — July  dawn  at  that — covers 
thirty  miles  of  rough  country  before  eleven  o'clock 
dinner  and  as  many  more  after,  supper  seems,  for  the 
time  being,  the  most  important  thing  in  the  life  of  a 
cowboy. 

Men  stood  about  in  various  dejected  attitudes,  their 
thumbs  tucked  inside  their  chap-belts,  blank  helpless- 
ness writ  large  upon  their  perturbed  countenances — 
they  were  the  aliens,  hired  but  to  make  a  full  crew 
during  round-up.  Long-legged  fellows  with  spurs  a- 
jingle  hurried  in  and  out  of  the  cook-tent,  colliding 
often,  shouting  futile  questions,  commands  and  male- 
dictions— they  were  the  Happy  Family:  loyal,  first  and 
last  to  the  Flying  U,  feeling  a  certain  degree  of  pro- 
prietorship and  a  good  deal  of  responsibility, 

134 


When    the    Cook    Fell    111 

Happy  Jack  was  fanning  an  incipient  blaze  in  the 
iheet-iron  stove  with  his  hat,  his  face  red  and  gloomy 
it  the  prospect  of  having  to  satisfy  fifteen  outdoor 
Appetites  with  his  amateur  attempts  at  cooking.  Be- 
hind the  stove,  writhing  bulkily  upon  a  hastily  unrolled 
bed,  lay  Patsy,  groaning  most  pitiably. 

"What  the  devil's  the  matter  with  that  hot  water?" 
Cal  Emmett  yelled  at  Happy  Jack  from  the  bedside, 
where  he  was  kneeling  sympathetically. 

Happy  Jack  removed  his  somber  gaze  from  the  lick- 
ing tongue  of  flame  which  showed  in  the  stove-front. 
'Tire  ain't  going  good,  yet,"  he  said  in  a  matter-of-fact 
tone  which  contrasted  sharply  with  Cal's  excitement., 
"Teakettle's  dry,  too.  I  sent  a  man  to  the  crick  for  a 
bucket  uh  water;  he'll  be  back  in  a  minute." 

"Well,  movel  If  it  was  you  tied  in  a  knot  with 
cramp,  yuh  wouldn't  take  it  so  serene." 

"Aw,  gwan.  I  got  troubles  enough,  cooking  chuck 
for  this  here  layout.  I  got  to  have  some  help — and 
lots  of  it.  Patsy  ain't  got  enough  stuff  cooked  up  to 
feed  a  jack-rabbit.  Somebody's  got  to  mosey  in  here 
and  peel  the  spuds." 

135 


When    the   Cook    Fell    111 

"That's  your  funeral,"  said  Cal,  unfeelingly. 

Chip  stuck  his  head  under  the  lifted  tent-flap.  "Say;  I 
can't  find  that  cussed  Three-H  bottle,"  he  complained. 
4  What  went  with  it,  ^d?" 

"Ask  Slim;  he  had  it  last.  Ain't  Shorty  here,  yet?" 
Cal  turned  again  to  Patsy,  whose  outcries  were  not 
nice  to  listen  to.  "Stay  with  it,  old-timer;  we'll  have 
something  hot  to  pour  down  yuh  in  a  minute." 

Patsy  replied,  but  pain  made  him  incoherent.  Cal 
caught  the  word  "poison",  and  then  "corn";  the  rest 
of  the  sentence  was  merely  a  succession  of  groans. 

The  face  of  Cal  lengthened  perceptibly.  He  got  up 
and  went  out  to  where  the  others  were  wrangling  with 
Slim  over  the  missing  bottle  of  liniment. 

"  I  guess  the  old  boy's  up  against  it  good  and  plenty,'* 
he  announced  gravely.  "He  says  he's  poisoned;  he 
says  it  was  the  corn." 

"Well  he  had  it  coming  to  him,"  declared  Jack 

Bates.    "He's  stuck  that  darned  canned  corn  under 

our  noses  every  meal  since  round-up  started     He — " 

./"Oh,  shut  up,"  snarled  Cal.     "I  guess  it  won't  be 

so  funny  if  he  cashes  in  on  the  strength  of  it     I've 

136 


Wh  en    the   Cook   Fell    111 

known  two  or  three  fellows  that  was  laid  out  cold  with 
tin-can  poison.    It's  sure  fierce." 

The  Happy  Family  shifted  uneasily  before  the  im- 
pending tragedy,  and  their  faces  paled  a  little;  for 
nearly  every  man  of  the  range  dreads  ptomaine  poison- 
ing more  than  the  bite  of  a  rattler.  One  can  kill  a 
rattler,  and  one  is  always  warned  of  its  presence;  but 
one  never  can  tell  what  dire  suffering  may  lurk  beneath 
the  gay  labels  of  canned  goods.  But  since  one  must 
eat,  and  since  canned  vegetables  are  far  and  away 
better  than  no  vegetables  at  all,  the  Happy  Family  ate 
and  took  their  chance — only  they  did  not  eat  canned 
corn,  and  they  had  discussed  the  matter  profanely  and 
often  with  Patsy. 

Patsy  was  a  slave  of  precedent  Many  seasons  had 
he  cooked  beneath  a  round-up  tent,  and  never  had  he 
stocked  the  mess-wagon  for  a  long  trip  and  left  canned 
corn  off  the  list.  It  was  good  to  his  palate  and  it  was 
easy  to  prepare,  and  no  argument  could  wean  him 
from  imperturbably  opening  can  after  can,  eating  plenti- 
fully of  it  himself  and  throwing  the  rest  to  feed  the 
gophers. 

137 


When    the   Cook   Fell    111 

"Ain't  there  anything  to  give  him?"  asked  Jack, 
relenting.  "That  Three-H  would  fix  him  up  all  right 

"Dig  it  up,  then,"  snapped  Cal.  "There's  sure 
something  got  to  be  done,  or  we'll  have  a  dead  cook  on 
our  hands." 

"Not  even  a  drop  uh  whisky  in  camp!"  mourned 
Weary.  "  Slim,  you  ought  to  be  killed  for  getting  away 
with  that  liniment." 

Slim  was  too  downhearted  to  resent  the  tone.  "By 
golly,  I  can't  think  what  I  done  with  it  after  I  used  it 
on  Banjo.  Seems  like  I  stood  it  on  that  rock — " 

"  Oh,  hell!"  snorted  Cal.     "That's  forty  miles  back." 

"Say,  it's  sure  a  fright ij'  sympathized  Jack  Bates 
as  a  muffled  shriek  came  through  the  cloth  wall  of  the 
tent.  "What's  good  for  tincaneetis,  I  wonder?" 

"A  rattling  good  doctor,"  retorted  Chip,  throwing 
••hings  recklessly  about,  still  searching.  "There  goe§ 
the  damn  butter — pick  it  up,  Cal." 

"If  old  Dock  was  sober,  he  could  do  something," 
suggested  Weary.  "I  guess  I'd  better  go  after  him; 
what  do  yuh  think?" 

138 


When    the   Cook   Fell    111 

"He  could  send  out  some  stuff — if  he  was  sober 
enough;  he's  sure  wise  on  medicine." 

Weary  made  him  a  cigarette.  "Well,  it's  me  for 
Dry  Lake,"  he  said,  crisply.  "  I  reckon  Patsy  can  hang 
on  till  I  get  back;  can  poison  doesn't  do  the  business 
inside  several  hours,  and  he  hasn't  been  sick  long.  He 
was  all  right  when  Happy  Jack  hit  camp  about  two 
o'clock.  I'll  be  back  by  dark— I'll  ride  Glory."  He 
swung  up  on  the  nearest  horse,  which  happened  to  be 
Chip's  and  raced  out  to  the  saddle  bunch  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  away.  The  Happy  Family  watched  him  go  and 
called  after  him,  urging  him  unnecessarily  to  speed. 

Weary  did  not  waste  time  having  the  bunch  corralled 
but  rode  in  among  the  horses,  his  rope  down  and  ready 
for  business.  Glory  stared  curiously,  tossed  his  crim- 
pled,  silver  mane,  dodged  a  second  too  late  and  found 
himself  caught 

It  was  unusual,  this  interruption  just  when  he  was 
busy  cropping  sweet  grasses  and  taking  his  ease,  but 
he  supposed  there  was  some  good  reason  for  it;  at  any 
rate  he  submitted  quietly  to  being  saddled  and  merely 
nipped  Weary's  shoulder  once  and  struck  out  twice 

139 


When    the    Cook    Fell    111 

with  an  ivory-white,  daintily  "ounded  hoof — and 
Weary  was  grateful  for  the  docile  ood  he  showed. 

He  mounted  hurriedly  without  a  word  of  praise  or 
condemnation,  and  his  silence  was  to  Glory  more 
unusual  than  being  roped  and  saddled  on  the  range. 
He  seemed  to  understand  that  the  stress  was  great,  and 
fairly  bolted  up  the  long,  western  slope  of  the  creek 
bottom  straight  toward  the  slant  of  the  sun. 

For  two  miles  he  kept  the  pace  unbroken,  though 
the  way  was  not  of  the  smoothest  and  there  was  no 
trail  to  follow.  Straight  away  to  the  west,  with  fifteen 
miles  of  hills  and  coulees  between,  lay  Dry  Lake;  and 
in  Dry  Lake  lived  the  one  man  in  the  country  who 
might  save  Patsy. 

"Old  Dock"  was  a  land-mark  among  old-timers. 
The  oldest  pioneer  found  Dock  before  him  among  the 
Indians  and  buffalo  that  ran  riot  over  the  wind-brushed 
prairie  where  now  the  nation's  beef  feeds  quietly.  Why 
ne  was  there  no  man  could  tell;  he  was  a  fresh-faced 
young  Frenchman  with  much  knowledge  of  medicine 
and  many  theories,  and  a  reticence  un-French.  From 
the  Indians  he  learned  to  use  strange  herbs  that  healed 

140 


When    the   Cook   Fell    111 

almost  magically  the  ills  of  man;  from  the  rough  out- 
croppings  of  civilization  he  learned  to  swallow  vile 
whiskey  in  great  gulps,  and  to  thirst  always  for  more. 

So  he  grew  old  while  the  West  was  yet  young,  until 
Dry  Lake,  which  grew  up  around  him,  could  not  re- 
member him  as  any  but  a  white-bearded,  stooped, 
shuffling  old  man  who  spoke  a  queer  jargon  and  was 
always  just  getting  drunk  or  sober.  When  he  was  sober 
his  medicines  never  failed  to  cure;  when  he  was  drunk  he 
could  not  be  induced  to  prescribe,  so  that  men  trusted 
his  wisdom  at  all  times  and  tolerated  his  infirmities, 
and  looked  upon  him  with  amused  proprietorship. 

When  Weary  galloped  up  the  trail  which,  because  a 
few  habitations  are  strewn  with  fine  contempt  of  regu- 
larity upon  either  side,  is  called  by  courtesy  a  street, 
his  eyes  sought  impatiently  for  the  familiar,  patriarchal 
figure  of  Old  Dock.  He  felt  that  minutes  were  worth 
much  and  that  if  he  would  save  Patsy  he  must  cut  out 
ail  superfluities,  so  he  resolutely  declined  to  remember 
that  cold,  foamy  beer  refreshes  one  amazingly  after  a 
long,  hot  ride  in  the  dust  and  the  wind. 

Upon  the  porch  of  Rusty  Brown's  place  men  were 
141 


When    the    Cook    Fell    111 

gathered,  and  it  was  evident  even  at  a  distance  that 
they  were  mightily  amused.  Weary  headed  for  the 
spot  and  stopped  beside  the  hitching  pole.  Old  Dock 
stood  in  the  center  of  the  group  and  his  bent  old  figure 
was  trembling  with  rage.  With  both  hands  he  waved 
aloft  his  coat,  on  which  was  plastered  a  sheet  of  "  tangle- 
foot" fly-paper. 

"Das  wass  de  mean  treeck!"  he  was  shouting.  "I 
don'd  do  de  harm  wis  no  mans.  I  tend  mine  business, 
I  buy  me  mine  clothes.  De  mans  wass  do  dees  treeck, 
he  buy  me  new  clothes — you  bet  you!  Dass  wass  dc 
mean — " 

"Say,  Dock,"  broke  in  Weary,  towering  over  him, 
•'you  dig  up  some  dope  for  tin-can  poison,  and  do  it 
quick.  Patsy's  took  bad." 

Old  Dock  looked  up  at  him  and  shook  his  shaggy, 
white  beard.  "Das  wass  de  mean  treeck,"  he  re- 
peated, waving  the  coat  at  Weary.  "You  see  dass? 
Mine  coat,  she  ruint;  dass  was  new  coat!" 

"All  right— I'll  take  your  word  for  it,  Dock.  Tell 
me  what's  good  for  tin — " 

"  Aw,  I  knows  you  fellers.    You  t'inke  Ole  Dock,  she 
142 


When    the    Cook    Fell    111 

Dock,    she   don'd    know    nothings!    You     t'ink — " 

Weary  sighed  and  turned  to  the  crowd.  "Which 
end  of  a  jag  is  this?"  he  wanted  to  know.  "I've  got 
:o  get  some  uh  that  dope-wisdom  out  uh  him,  somehow. 
Patsy's  a  goner,  sure,  if  I  don't  connect  with  some 
medicine." 

The  men  crowded  close  and  asked  questions  which 
Weary  felt  bound  to  answer;  everyone  knew  Patsy, 
who  was  almost  as  much  a  part  of  Dry  Lake  scenery 
as  was  Old  Dock,  and  it  was  gratifying  to  a  Flying-U 
man  to  see  the  sympathy  in  their  faces.  But  Patsy 
needed  something  more  potent  than  sympathy,  and  the 
minutes  were  passing. 

Old  Dock  still  discoursed  whimperingly  upon  the 
subject  of  his  ruined  coat  and  the  meanness  of  man- 
kind, and  there  was  no  weaning  his  interest  for  a  mo- 
ment, try  as  Weary  would.  And  fifteen  miles  away 
in  a  picturesque  creek-bottom  a  man  lay  dying  in  great 
pain  for  want  of  one  little  part  of  the  wisdom  stored 
uselessly  away  in  the  brain  of  this  drunken,  doddering 
old  man. 

Weary's  gloved  hand  dropped  in  despair  from  Old 
143 


When    the    Cook    Fell    Ml 

Dock's  bent  shoulder.  "Damn  a  drunkard!"  he  said 
bitterly,  and  got  into  the  saddle.  "Rusty,  I'll  want  to 
borrow  that  calico  cayuse  uh  yours.  Have  him  sad- 
dled up  right  away,  will  yuh?  I'll  be  back  in  a  little 
bit." 

He  jerked  his  hat  down  to  his  eyebrows  and  struck 
Glory  with  the  quirt;  but  the  trail  he  took  was  strange 
to  Glory  and  he  felt  impelled  to  stop  and  argue — as 
only  Glory  could  argue — with  his  master.  Minutes 
passed  tumultuously,  with  nothing  accomplished  save 
some  weird  hoof-prints  in  the  sod.  Eventually,  how- 
ever, Glory  gave  over  trying  to  stand  ivpon  his  head 
and  his  hind  feet  at  one  and  the  same  instant,  and 
permitted  himself  to  be  guided  toward  a  certain  tiny, 
low-eaved  cabin  in  a  meadow  just  over  the  hill  from  the 
town. 

Weary  was  not  by  nature  given  to  burglary,  but  he 
wrenched  open  the  door  of  the  cabin  and  went  in 
with  not  a  whisper  of  conscience  to  say  him  nay.  It  was 
close  and  ill-smelling  and  very  dirty  inside,  but  after 
the  first  whiff  Weary  did  not  notice  it.  He  went  over 
and  stopped  before  a  little,  old-fashioned  chest;  it  was 

144 


When    the   Cook   Fell    Hi 

padlocked,  so  he  left  that  as  a  last  resort  and  searched 
elsewhere  for  what  he  wanted — medicine.  Under  the 
bed  he  found  a  flat,  black  case,  such  as  old-fashioned 
doctors  carried.  He  drew  it  out  and  examined  it 
critically.  This,  also,  was  locked,  but  he  shook  it  ten- 
tatively and  heard  the  faintest  possible  jingle  inside. 

"Bottles,"  he  said  briefly,  and  grinned  satisfaction. 
Something  brushed  against  his  hat  and  he  looked  up 
into  a  very  dusty  bunch  of  herbs.  "You  too,"  he 
told  them,  breaking  the  string  with  one  yank.  "For 
all  I  know,  yuh  might  stand  ace-high  in  this  game. 
Lord!  if  I  could  trade  brains  with  the  old  devil,  just  for 
to-night!" 

He  took  a  last  look  around,  decided  that  he  had 
found  all  he  wanted,  and  went  out  and  pulled  the  door 
shut.  Then  he  tied  the  black  medicine  case  to  the 
saddle  in  a  way  that  would  give  it  the  least  jar,  stuffed 
;he  bunch  of  dried  herbs  into  his  pocket  and  mounted 
for  the  homeward  race.  As  he  did  so  the  sun  threw  a 
red  beam  into  his  eyes  as  though  reminding  him  of  the 
passing  hours,  and  ducked  behind  the  ridge  which 
bounds  Lonesome  Prairie  on  the  east. 

145 


When    the   Cook   Fell    111 

The  afterglow  filled  sky  and  earth  with  a  soft,  de- 
parting radiance  when  he  stopped  again  in  front  of  the 
saloon.  Old  Doc  was  still  gesticulating  wildly,  and 
the  sheet  of  fly-paper  still  clung  to  the  back  of  his  coat 
The  crowd  had  thinned  somewhat  and  displayed  less 
interest;  otherwise  the  situation  had  not  changed,  except 
that  a  pinto  pony  stood  meekly,  with  head  drooping,  at 
the  hitching-pole. 

"There's  your  horse,"  Rusty  Brown  called  to  Weary* 
"Yours  played  out?" 

"Not  on  your  life,"  Weary  denied  proudly.  "When 
yuh  see  Glory  played  out,  you'll  see  him  with  four 
leet  in  the  air." 

"I  seen  him  that  way  half  an  hour  ago,  all  :ight;>7 
bantered  Bert  Rogers. 

Weary  passed  over  the  joke.  "Mamma!  Has  It 
been  that  long?"  he  cried  uneasily.  "I've  got  to  be 
moving  some.  Here,  Dock,  you  put  on  that  coat— ' 
and  never  mind  the  label;  it's  got  to  go — and  so  have 
you." 

"  Aw,  he's  no  good  to  yuh,  Weary,"  they  protested. 
"He's  too  drunk  to  tell  chloroform  from  dried  apricots." 

146 


When    the    Cook    Fell    111 

"That'll  be  all  right,"  Weary  assured  them  con- 
fidently.    "  I  guess  he'll  be  some  sober  by  the  time  we 
hit  camp.    I  went  and  dug  up  his  dope-box,  so  he  can 
,'get  right  to  work  when  he  arrives.     Send  him  out  here." 

"  Say,  he  can't  never  top  off  Powderface,  Weary.  I 
thought  yuh  was  going  to  ride  him  yourself.  It's 
plumb  wicked  to  put  that  old  centurion  on  him.  He 
wouldn't  be  able  to  stay  with  him  a  mile." 

"  That's  a  heap  farther  than  he  could  get  with  Glory," 
said  Weary,  unmoved.  "Yuh  don't  seem  to  realize 
that  Patsy's  just  next  thing  to  a  dead  man,  and  Dock 
has  got  the  name  of  what'll  cure  him  sloshing  around 
amongst  all  that  whiskey  in  his  head.  I  can't  wait  for 
him  to  sober  up — I'm  just  plumb  obliged  to  take  hinr 
along,  jag  and  all.  Come  on,  Dock;  this  is  a  lovely 
evening  for  a  ride." 

Dock  objected  emphatically  with  head,  arms,  legs 
'iand  much  mixed  dialect.  But  Weary  climbed  down 
and,  with  the  help  of  Bert  Rogers,  carried  him  bodily 
and  lifted  him  into  the  saddle.  When  the  pinto  began 
to  offer  some  objections,  strong  hands  seized  his  bridle 
and  held  him  angrily  submissive. 

147 


When    the   Cook    Fell    111 

"He'll  tumble  off,  sure  as  yuh  live,"  predicted  Bert; 
but  Weary  never  did  things  by  halves;  he  shook  his 
head  and  untied  his  coiled  rope. 

"By  the  Lord!  I  hate  to  see  a  man  ride  into  town 
and  pack  off  the  only  heirloom  we  got,"  complained 
Rusty  Brown.  "Dock's  been  handed  down  from 
generation  to  Genesis,  and  there  ain't  hardly  al  scratch 
on  him.  If  yuh  don't  bring  him  back  in  good  order 
Weary  Davidson,  there'll  be  things  doing." 

Weary  looked  up  from  taking  the  last  half -hitch 
around  the  saddle  horn.  "Yuh  needn't  worry,"  he 
said.  "This  medical  monstrosity  is  more  valuable  to 
me  than  he  is  to  you,  right  now.  I'll  handle  him  care- 
ful." 

"Das  wass  de  mean  treeck!"  cried  Dock,  for  all  the 
world  like  a  parrot. 

*  It  sure  is,  old  boy,"  assented  Weary  cheerfully,  and 
tied  the  pinto's  bridle-reins  into  a  hard  knot  at  the  eno\ 
With  the  reins  in  his  hand  he  mounted  Glory.  "Yoiu 
pinto'll  lead,  won't  he?"  he  asked  Rusty  then.  It 
-was  like  Weary  to  take  a  thing  for  granted  first,  and 
ask  questions  about  it  afterward. 

148 


When    the   Cook   Fell    111 

"'  Maybe  he  will — he  never  did,  so  far,"  grinned 
Rusty.  "It's  plumb  insulting  to  a  self-respecting 
cow-pony  to  make  a  pack-horse  out  uh  him.  I  wouldn't 
be  none  surprised  if  yuh  heard  his  views  on  the  subject 
before  yuh  git  there." 

"It's  an  honor  to  pack  heirlooms,"  retorted  Weary. 
"So-long,  boys." 

Old  Dock  made  a  last,  futile  effort  to  free  himself 
and  then  settled  down  in  the  saddle  and  eyed  the  world 
sullenly  from  under  frost-white  eyebrows  heavy  as  a 
military  mustache.  He  did  not  at  that  time  look  par- 
ticularly patriarchal;  more  nearly  he  resembled  a 
humbled,  entrapped  Santa  Claus. 

They  started  off  quite  tamely.  The  pinto  leaned 
far  back  upon  the  bridle-reins  and  trotted  with  stiff, 
reluctant  legs  that  did  not  promise  speed;  but  still  he 
went,  and  Weary  drew  a  relieved  breath.  His  arm 
was  like  to  ache  frightfully  before  they  covered  a, 
quarter  of  the  fifteen  miles,  but  he  did  not  mind  that 
much;  besides,  he  guessed  shrewdly  that  the  pinto 
would  travel  better  once  they  were  well  out  of  town. 

The  soft,  warm  dusk  of  a  July  evening  crept  over 
149 


When    the    Cook    Fell    111 

the  land  and  a  few  stars  winked  at  them  facetiously, 
Over  by  the  reedy  creek,  frogs  cr-ek-ek-ekked  in  a  tune- 
less medley  and  night-hawks  flapped  silently  through  the 
rtill  air,  swooping  suddenly  with  a  queer,  whooing  rush 
'like  wind  blowing  through  a  cavern.  Familiar  sounds 
they  were  to  Weary — so  familiar  that  he  scarce  heard 
them;  though  he  would  have  felt  a  vague,  uneasy  sense 
of  something  lost  had  they  stilled  unexpectedly.  Out 
in  the  lane  which  leads  to  the  open  range-land 
between  wide  reaches  of  rank,  blue-joint  meadows,  a 
new  sound  met  them — the  faint,  insistent  humming  of 
millions  of  mosquitoes.  Weary  dug  Glory  with  his 
spurs  and  came  near  having  his  arm  jerked  from  its 
socket  before  he  could  pull  him  in  again.  He  swore  a 
little  and  swung  round  in  the  saddle. 

"Can't  yuh  dig  a  little  speed  into  that  cayuse  with 
your  heels,  Dock?"  he  cried  to  the  resentful  heirloom. 

"We're  going  to  be  naturally  chewed  up  if  we  don't 
an  the  breeze  along  here." 

"Ah  don'd  care — das  wass  de  mean  treecki  '  growled 
Dock  into  his  beard. 

Weary  opened  his  mouth,  came  near  swallowing  a 


When    the    Cook    Fell    111 

dozen  mosquitoes  alive,  and  closed  it  again.  What 
would  it  profit  him  to  argue  with  a  drunken  man? 
He  slowed  till  the  pinto,  still  moving  with  stiff,  reluctant 
knees,  came  alongside,  and  struck  him  sharply  with 
his  quirt;  the  pinto  sidled  and  Dock  lurched  over  as 
far  as  Weary's  rope  would  permit. 

"Come  along,  then!"  admonished  Weary,  under  hii 
breath. 

The  pinto  snorted  and  ran  backward  until  Weary 
wished  he  had  been  content  with  the  pace  of  a  snail. 
Then  the  mosquitoes  swooped  down  upon  them  in  a 
cloud  and  Glory  struck  out,  fighting  and  kicking  vi- 
ciously. Presently  Weary  found  himself  with  part  of  the 
pinto's  bridle-rein  in  his  hand,  and  the  memory  of  a 
pale  object  disappearing  into  the  darkness  ahead. 

For  the  time  being  he  was  wholly  occupied  with  his 
own  horse;  but  when  Glory  was  minded  to  go  straight 
ahead  instead  of  in  a  circle,  he  gave  thought  to  his 
mission  and  thanked  the  Lord  that  Dock  was  headed 
in  the  right  direction.  He  gave  chase  joyfully;  for 
every  mile  covered  in  that  fleet  fashion  meant  an  added 
chance  for  Patsy's  life.  Even  the  mosquitoes  found 


When    the   Cook    Fell    1  1\ 

themselves  hopelessly  out  of  the  race  and  beat  up 
harmlessly  in  the  rear.  So  he  galloped  steadily  upon 
the  homeward  trail;  and  a  new  discomfort  forced  it- 
self upon  his  consciousness — the  discomfort  of  swift 
riding  while  a  sharp-cornered  medicine-case  of  generous 
proportions  thumped  regularly  against  his  leg.  At 
first  he  did  not  mind  it  so  much,  but  after  ten  minutes 
of  riding  so,  the  thing  grew  monotonously  painful  and 
disquieting  to  the  nerves. 

Five  miles  from  the  town  he  sighted  the  pinto;  it  was 
just  disappearing  up  a  coulee  which  led  nowhere — 
much  less  to  camp.  Weary's  self-congratulatory  mood 
changed  to  impatience;  he  followed  after.  Two  miles, 
and  he  reached  the  unclimbable  head  of  the  coulee — 
and  no  pinto.  He  pulled  up  and  gazed  incredulously 
at  the  blank,  sandstone  walls;  searched  long  for  some 
hidden  pathway  to  the  top  and  gave  it  up. 

He  rode  back  slowly  under  the  stars,  a  much  dis- 
neartened  Weary.  He  thought  of  Patsy's  agony  and 
gritted  his  teeth  at  his  own  impotence.  After  awhile 
h&  thought  of  Old  Dock  lashed  to  the  pinto's  saddle, 
and  his  commence  awoke  and  badgered  him  unmerci- 

152 


Wh  en    the    Cook    Fell    111 

fully  for  the  thing  he  had  done  and  the  risk  he  had 
taken  with  one  man's  life  that  he  might  save  the  life 
of  another. 

Down  near  the  mouth  of  the  coulee  he  came  upon  a/' 
cattle  trail  winding  up  toward  the  stars.  For  the  lack 
of  a  better  clue  he  turned  into  it  and  urged  Glory  faster 
than  was  wise  if  he  would  save  the  strength  of  his 
horse;  but  Glory  was  game  as  long  as  he  could  stand, 
and  took  the  hill  at  a  lope  with  never  a  protest  against 
the  pace. 

Up  on  the  top  the  prairie  stretched  mysteriously 
away  to  the  sky-line,  with  no  sound  to  mar  the  broody 
silence,  and  with  never  a  movement  to  disturb  the  deep 
sleep  of  the  grass-land.  All  day  had  the  hills  been 
buffeted  by  a  sweeping  West  wind;  but  the  breeze  had 
dropped  with  the  sun,  as  though  tired  with  roistering 
and  slept  without  so  much  as  a  dream-puff  to  shake 
the  dew  from  the  grasses. 

Weary  stopped  to  wind  his  horse  and  to  listen,  but 
not  a  hoof-beat  came  to  guide  him  in  his  search.  He 
leaned  and  shifted  the  medicine  case  a  bit  to  ease  his 
bruised  leg,  And  wished  he  might  unlock  the  healing 

153 


When    the    Cook    Fell    111 

mysteries  and  the  magic  stored  within.  It  seemed  to 
him  a  cruel  world  and  unjust  that  knowledge  must  be 
gleaned  slowly,  laboriously,  while  men  died  miserably 
'for  want  of  it.  Worse,  that  men  who  had  gleaned 
should  be  permitted  to  smother  such  precious  knowledge 
in  the  stupefying  fumes  of  whiskey. 

If  he  could  only  have  appropriated  Dock's  brain 
along  with  his  medicines,  he  might  have  been  in  camp 
by  now,  ministering  to  Patsy  before  it  was  too  late  to 
do  anything.  Without  a  doubt  the  boys  were  scanning 
anxiously  the  ridge,  confident  that  he  would  not  fail 
them  though  impatient  for  his  coming.  And  here  he 
sat  helplessly  upon  a  hilltop  under  the  stars,  many 
miles  from  camp,  with  much  medicine  just  under  his 
knee  and  a  pocket  crammed  with  an  unknown,  healing 
herb,  as  useless  after  all  his  effort  as  he  had  been  in 
camp  when  they  could  not  find  the  Three-H  liniment. 

Glory  turned  his  head  and  regarded  him  gravely  out 
of  eyes  near  human  in  their  questioning,  and  Weary 
laid  caressing  hand  upon  his  silvery  mane,  grateful  for 
the  sense  of  companionship  which  it  gave. 

w  You're  sure  a  wise  little  nag."  he  said  wistfully,  and 
154 


Wh  en    the    Cook    Fell    111 

his  voice  sounded  strange  in  the  great  silence.  "  Maybe 
you  can  find  'em — and  if  you  can,  I'll  sure  be  grateful; 
you  can  paw  the  stars  out  uh  high  heaven  and  I  won't 
take  my  quirt  off  my  saddle-horn;  hope  I  may  die  if  I 
do!" 

Glory  stamped  one  white  hoof  and  pointed  both  ears 
straight  forward,  threw  up  his  head  and  whinnied  a 
shrill  question  into  the  night.  Weary  hopefully  urged 
him  with  his  knees.  Glory  challenged  once  again  and 
struck  out  eagerly,  galloping  lightly  in  spite  of  the  miles 
he  had  covered.  Far  back  on  the  bench-land  came 
faint  answer  to  his  call,  and  Weary  laughed  from  sheer 
relief.  By  the  stars  the  night  was  yet  young,  and  he 
grew  hopeful — almost  complacent. 

Glory  planted  both  forefeet  deep  in  the  prairie  sod 
and  skidded  on  the  brink  of  a  deep  cut-bank.  It  was 
a  close  shave,  such  as  comes  often  to  those  who  ride  the 
range  by  night.  Weary  looked  down  into  blackness^ 
and  then  across  into  gloom.  The  place  was  too  deep 
and  sheer  to  ride  into,  and  too  wide  to  jump;  clearly, 
they  must  go  around  it. 

Going  around  a  gulley  is  not  always  the  simple 
155 


Wh  en    the    Cook    Fell    111 

thing  it  sounds,  especially  when  one  is  not  sure  as  to 
the  direction  it  takes.  To  find  the  head  under  such 
conditions  requires  time. 

Weary  thought  he  knew  the  place  and  turned  north 
secure  in  the  belief  that  the  gulley  ran  south  into  the 
coulee  he  had  that  evening  fruitlessly  explored.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  it  opened  into  a  coulee  north  of  them,  and 
in  that  direction  it  grew  always  deeper  and  more  im- 
passable even  by  daylight. 

On  a  dark  night,  with  only  the  stars  to  guide  one  and 
to  accentuate  the  darkness,  such  a  discovery  brings 
with  it  confusion  of  locality.  Weary  drew  up  when  he 
could  go  no  farther  without  plunging  headlong  into 
blackness,  and  mentally  sketched  a  map  of  that  par- 
ticular portion  of  the  globe  and  tried  to  find  in  it  a 
place  where  the  gulch  might  consistently  lie.  After 
a  minute  he  gave  over  the  attempt  and  admitted  to 
himself  that,  according  to  his  mental  map,  it  could  not 
consistently  lie  anywhere  at  all.  Even  Glory  seemed 
to  have  lost  interest  in  the  quest  and  stood  listlessly 
with  his  head  down.  His  attitude  irritated  Weary  very 
much. 

156 


When    the   Cook   Fell    I  it 

"Yuh  damn',  taffy  colored  cayuse!"  he  said  fret- 
fully. "This  is  as  much  your  funeral  as  mine — see- 
ing yuh  started  out  all  so  brisk  to  find  that  pinto.  Do 
ymh  suppose  yuh  could  find  a  horse  if  he  was  staked 
ten  feet  in  front  of  your  nose?  Chances  are,  yuh 
couldn't.  I  reckon  you'd  have  trouble  finding  your 
way  around  the  little  pasture  at  the  ranch — unless  the 
sun  shone  real  bright  and  yuh  had  somebody  to  lead 
yuh!" 

This  was  manifestly  unjust  and  it  was  not  like 
Weary;  but  this  night's  mission  was  getting  on  his 
nerves.  He  leaned  and  shifted  the  medicine-case  again, 
and  felt  ruefully  of  his  bruised  leg.  That  also  was 
getting  upon  his  nerves. 

"Oh,  Mamma!''  he  muttered  disgustedly.  "This 
is  sure  a  sarcastic  layout;  dope  enough  here  to  cure 
all  the  sickness  in  Montana — if  a  fellow  knew  enough 
to  use  it — battering  a  hole  in  my  leg  you  could  throw  a 
yearling  calf  into,  and  me  wandering  wild  over  the  hills 
like  a  locoed  sheepherder!  Glory,  you  get  a  move 
on  yuh,  you  knock-kneed,  buzzard-headed — "  He 
subsided  into  incoherent  grumbling  and  rode 

157 


When    the   Cook   Fell    111 

back     whence    he    came,    up    the     gully's    brim. 

When  the  night  was  far  gone  and  the  slant  of  the 
Great  Dipper  told  him  that  day-dawn  was  near,  he 
heard  a  horse  nicker  wistfully,  away  to  the  right. 
Wheeling  sharply,  his  spurs  raking  the  roughened 
sides  of  Glory,  h^  rode  recklessly  toward  the  sound, 
not  daring  to  hope  that  it  might  be  the  pinto  and  yet 
holding  his  mind  back  from  despair. 

When  he  was  near  the  place — so  near  that  he  could 
see  a  dim,  formless  shape  outlined  against  the  sky- 
line,— Glory  stumbled  over  a  sunken  rock  and  fell 
heavily  upon  his  knees.  When  he  picked  himself  up 
he  hobbled  and  Weary  cursed  him  unpityingly.- 

When,  limping  painfully,  Glory  came  up  with  the 
object,  the  heart  of  Weary  rose  up  and  stuck  in  his 
throat;  for  the  object  was  a  pinto  horse  and  above  it 
bulked  the  squat  figure  of  an  irate  old  man. 

"Hello,  Dock,"  greeted  Weary.  "How  do  yuht 
stack  up?" 

"Mon  Dieu,  Weary  Davitson,  I  feex  yous  plandy. 
>Yhat  for  do  you  dees  t'ing?  I  not  do  de  harrm  wis 
?ou.  I  not  got  de  mooney  wort'  all  dees  troubles  what 

158 


When    the   Cook   Fell    111 

you  makes.  Dees  horse,  she  lak  for  keel  me  also. 
She  buck,  en  keeck,  en  roon — mon  Dieu,  I  not  like 
dees  f  ing." 

"Sober,  by  thunder!"  ejaculated  Weary  in  an 
ecstatic  half -whisper.  "Dock,  you've  got  a  chance  to 
make  a  record  for  yourself  to-night — if  we  ain't  too 
late,"  he  added  bodefully.  "Do  yuh  know  where 
we're  headed  for?" 

"I  fink  for  de  devil,"  retorted  Old  Dock  peevishly. 

"No  sir,  we  aren't.  We're  going  straight  to  camp, 
and  you're  going  to  save  old  Patsy — you  like  Patsy, 
you  know;  many's  the  time  you've  tanked  up  together 
and  then  fell  on  each  other's  necks  and  wept  because 
the  good  old  times  won't  come  again.  He  got  poisoned 
on  canned  corn;  the  Lord  send  he  ain't  too  dead  for  you 
to  cure  him.  Come  on — we  better  hit  the  breeze. 
We've  lost  a  heap  uh  time." 

"I  not  like  dees  rope;  she  not  comforte.  I  havt 
tide  de  bad  horse  when  you  wass  in  cradle." 

Weary  got  down  and  went  over  to  him.  "All  right, 
I'll  unwind  yuh.  When  we  started,  yuh  know,  vub 
Couldn't  uh  rode  a  rocking  chair.  I  was  plumb  ob« 

159 


When    the    Cook    Fell    111 

liged  to  tie  yuh  on.  Think  we'll  be  in  time  to  help 
Patsy?  He  was  taken  sick  about  four  o'clock." 

Old  Dock  waited  till  he  was  untied  and  the  remnant 
of  bridle-rein  was  placed  in  his  hand,  before  he  an- 
swered ironically:  "I  not  do  de  mageec,  mon  cher 
Weary.  I  mos'  have  de  medicine  or  I  can  do  nottings, 
I  not  wave  de  fingaire  an'  say  de  vord." 

"That's  all  right— I've  got  the  whole  works.  I 
broke  into  your  shack  and  made  a  clean  haul  uh  dope. 
And  I  want  to  tell  yuh  that  for  a  doctor  you've  got 
blame  poor  ventilation  to  your  house.  But  I  found 
the  medicine." 

" ''Mon  Dieu!"  was  the  astonished  comment,  and  after 
that  they  rode  in  silence  and  such  haste  as  Glory's 
lameness  would  permit. 

The  first  beams  of  the  sun  were  touching  redly  the 
hilltops  and  the  birds  were  singing  from  swaying  weeds 
when  they  rode  down  the  last  slope  into  the  valley  where 
camped  the  Flymg-U. 

The  night-hawk  had  driven  the  horses  into  the  rope- 
corral  and  men  were  inside  watching,  with  spread 
loop,  for  a  chance  to  throw.  Happy  Jack,  with  the 

160 


When    the   Cook   Fell    111 

cook's  apron  tied  tightly  around  his  lank  middle, 
stood  despondently  in  the  doorway  of  the  mess-tent 
and  said  no  word  as  they  approached.  In  his  silence 
—in  his  very  presence  there — Weary  read  disaster. 

"I  guess  we're  too  late,"  he  told  Dock,  in  hushed 
tones;  for  the  minute  he  hated  the  white-bearded  old 
man  whose  drunkenness  had  cost  the  Flying-U  so 
dear.  He  slipped  wearily  from  the  saddle  and  let 
the  reins  drop  to  the  ground.  Happy  Jack  still  eyed 
them  silently. 

"Well?"  asked  Weary,  when  his  nerves  would  bear 
no  more. 

"When  I  git  sick,"  said  Happy  Jack,  his  voice 
heavy  with  reproach,  "I'll  send  you  for  help — if  1 
want  to  die." 

"Is  he  dead?"  questioned  Weary,  in  hopeless  fashion. 

"Well,"  said  Happy  Jack  deliberately,  "no,  he  ain't 
dead  yet — but  it's  no  thanks  to  you.  Was  it  poker 
or  billiards?  and  who  won?" 

Weary  looked  at  him  dully  a  moment  before  he 
comprehended.  He  had  not  had  any  svpper  or  any 
sleep,  and  he  had  ridden  many  miles  in  the  long  hours 

161 


When    the   COOK   Fell    111 

he  had  been  away.  He  walked,  with  a  pronounced 
limp  on  the  leg  which  had  been  next  the  medicine-case, 
to  where  Dock  stood  leaning  shakily  against  the  pinto. 

"Maybe  we're  in  time,  after  all,"  he  said  slowly, 
"  Here's  some  kind  uh  dried  stuff  I  got  off  the  ceiling, 
I  thought  maybe  yuh  might  need  it — you're  great  on 
Indian  weeds."  He  pulled  a  crumpled,  faintly  aro- 
matic bundle  of  herbs  from  his  pocket. 

Dock  took  it  and  sniffed  disgustedly,  and  dropped 
the  herbs  contemptuously  to  the  ground.  "Dat  not 
wort'  netting — she  what  you  call — de — c&tneep."  He 
smiled  sourly. 

Weary  cast  a  furtive  glance  at  Happy  Jack,  and  hoped 
he  had  not  overheard.  Catnip!  Still,  how  could  he 
be  expected  to  know  what  the  blamed  stuff  was?  He 
untied  the  black  medicine-case  and  brought  it  and  put 
it  at  the  feet  of  Old  Dock.  "Well,  here's  the  joker, 
anyhow,"  he  said.  "It  like  to  wore  a  hole  cleai 
through  my  leg,  but  I  was  careful  and  I  don't  believe 
any  uh  the  bottles  are  busted." 

^  Dock  looked  at  it  and  sat  heavily  down  upon  a  box. 
He  looked  at  the  case  queerly,  then  lifted  his  shaggy 

162 


When    the   Cook   Fell    111 

head  to  gaze  up  it  Weary.  And  behind  the  bleared 
gravity  of  his  eyes  was  something  very  like  a  twinkle. 
"Dis,  she  not  cure  seek  mans,  n^ider.  She — "  He 
Dressed  a  tiny  spring  which  Weary  had  not  discovered 
and  laid  the  case  open  upon  the  ground.  "You  see?" 
he  said  plaintively.  "She  not  good  for  Patsy — she 
tree-dossen  can-openaire." 

Weary  stared  blankly.  Happy  Jack  came  up, 
looked  and  doubled  convulsively.  Can-openers!  Three 
dozen  of  them.  Old  Dock  was  explaining  in  his  best 
English,  and  he  was  courteously  refraining  from  the 
faintest  smile. 

"Dey  de  new,  bettaire  kind.  I  send  for  dem,  I 
t'ink  maybe  I  sell.  I  put  her  in  de  grip — so — I  carry 
dem  all  togedder.  My  mediceen,  she  in  de  beeg  chesV 

Weary  had  sat  down  and  his  head  was  dropped  de- 
jectedly into  his  hands.  He  had  bungled  the  whole 
hing,  after  all.  "Well,"  he  said  apathetically,  "The 
chest  was  locked;  I  never  opened  it." 

Old  Dock  nodded  his  head  gravely.  "She  lock/* 
he  assented,  gently.  "She  mooch  mediceen — she 
wort*  mooch  mooney.  De  key,  she  in  mine  pocket — w 

163 


When    the    Cook    Fell    111 

"  Oh,  I  don't  give  a  damn  where  .he  key  is — now," 
flared  Weary.  "I  guess  Patsy'll  have  to  sash  in; 
that's  all." 

"Aw,  gwan!"  cried  Happy  Jack.  "A  sheepman 
come  along  just  after  you  left,  and  he  had  a  quart  uh> 
whisky.  We  begged  it  off  him  and  give  Patsy  a  good 
bit  jolt.  That  eased  him  up  some,  and  we  give  him 
another — and  he  got  to  hollerin'  so  loud  for  more  uh 
the  same,  so  we  just  set  the  bottle  in  easy  reach  and 
let  him  alone.  He's  in  there  now,  drunk  as  a  biled 
owl— the  lazy  old  devil.  I  had  to  get  supper  and 
breakfast  too — and  looks  like  I'd  have  to  cook  dinner. 
Poison — hell!  I  betche  he  never  had  nothing  but  a 
plain  old  belly-ache!" 

Weary  got  up  and  went  to  the  mess-tent,  lifted  the 
flap  and  looked  in  upon  Patsy  lying  on  the  flat  of  his 
back,  snoring  comfortably.  He  regarded  him  silently 
%  moment,  then  looked  over  his  shoulder  to  where  Old 
Oock  huddled  over  the  three  dozen  can-openers. 

"Oh,  mamma!"  he  whispered,  and  poured  himself 
A  cup  of  coffee. 


164 


THE  LAMB 

T  T  THEN  came  the  famine  in  stock-cars  on  the  Montana 

Central,  and  the  Flying  U  herd  had  grazed  for  two 
days  within  five  miles  of  Dry  Lake,  waiting  for  the  prom- 
ised train  of  empties,  Chip  Bennett,  lately  promoted  fore- 
man, felt  that  he  had  trouble  a-plenty.  When,  short- 
handed  as  he  was,  two  of  his  cowboys  went  a-spreeing 
and  a-leisuring  in  town,  with  their  faces  turned  from 
honest  toil  and  their  hands  manipulating  pairs  and 
flushes  and  face-cards,  rather  than  good  "grass"  ropes, 
he  was  positive  that  his  cup  was  dripping  trouble  all 
round  the  rim. 

The  delinquents  were  not  "top  hands,"  it  is  true. 
They — the  Happy  Family,  of  which  Jim  Whitmore 
was  inordinately  proud — would  sooner  forswear  their 
country  than  the  Flying  U.  But  even  two  transients 
of  very  ordinary  ability  are  missed  when  they  suddenly 
vanish  in  shipping  time,  and  Chip,  feeling  keenly  his 


The          Lamb 

responsibilities,  rode  disgustedly  into  town  to  reclaim 
the  recreants  or  pay  them  off  and  hire  others  in  their 
places. 

With  his  temper  somewhat  roughened  by  the  agent's 
report  that  no  cars  were  yet  on  the  way,  he  clanked  into 
Rusty  Brown's  place  after  his  deserters.  One  was 
laid  blissfully  out  in  the  little  back  room,  breathing 
loudly,  dead  to  the  world  and  the  exigencies  or  life; 
him  Chip  passed  up  with  a  snort  of  disgust.  The  other 
was  sitting  in  a  corner,  with  his  hat  balanced  precari- 
ously over  his  left  ear,  gazing  superciliously  upon  his 
fdlows  and,  incidentally,  winning  everything  in  sight. 
He  leered  up  at  Chip  and  fingered  ostentatiously  his 
three  stacks  of  blues. 

"What'n  thunder  do  I  want  to  go  t'  camp  for?"  ht 
demanded,  in  answer  to  Chip's  suggestion.  "Forty 
dollars  a  month  following  your  trail  don't  look  good  t* 
me  no  more.  I'm  four  hundred  dollars  t'  the  good 
sence  last  night,  and  takin'  allcomers.  Good  money's 
just  fallin'  my  way.  I  don't  guess  I  hanker  after  any 
more  night  guardin',  thank  ye." 

"Suit  yourself,"  said  Chip  coldly,  and  turned  awaj 
166 


1       he          Lam       r> 

Argument  was  useless  and  never  to  his  liking.  The 
problem  now  was  to  find  two  men  who  could  take  their 
places,  and  that  was  not  so  easily  solved.  A  golden- 
haired,  pink-cheeked,  blue-eyed  young  fellow  in  dainty 
silk  negligee,  gray  trousers,  and  russet  leather  belt, 
with  a  panama  hat  and  absurdly  small  tan  shoes,  fol- 
lowed him  outside. 

"  If  you're  looking  for  men,"  he  announced  musically, 
"I'm  open  for  engagements." 

Chip  looked  down  at  him  tolerantly.  "Much 
obliged,  but  I'm  not  getting  up  a  garden-party,"  he 
informed  him  politely,  and  took  a  step.  He  was  not 
in  the  mood  to  find  amusement  in  the  situation. 

The  immaculate  one  showed  some  dimples  that 
would  have  been  distracting  in  the  face  of  a  woman. 
"  And  I  ain't  looking  for  a  job  leading  cows  to  water/' 
he  retorted.  "Yuh  shouldn't  judge  a  man  by  his 
clothes,  old-timer." 

"I  don't— a  man!"  said  Chip  pointedly.  "Run 
away  and  play.  I'll  tell  you  what,  sonny,  I'm  not 
running  a  kindergarten.  Every  man  I  hire  has  got 
man's  work  to  do.  Wait  till  you're  grown  up;  as  it  is, 


The  Lamb 

you'd  last  quick  on  round-up,    and   that's  a  fact." 

"  Oh!  it  is,  eh ?  Say,  did  yuh  ever  hear  uh  old  Eagle 
Creek  Smith,  of  the  Cross  L,  or  Rowdy  Vaughan,  or 
^  fellow  up  on  Milk  River  they  call  Pink?" 

"I'd  tell  a  man!"  Chip  turned  toward  him  again. 
"At  least  I've  heard  of  Eagle  Creek  Smith,  and  of  Pink 
—bronco-fighter,  they  say,  and  a  little  devil.  Why?" 

The  immaculate  one  lifted  his  panama,  ran  his 
angers  through  his  curls,  and  smiled  demurely.  "  Noth- 
ing in  particular — only,  I'm  Pink!" 

Chip  stared  frankly,  and  measured  the  slender  figure 
from  accurately  dented  hat-crown  to  tiny  shoe-tips. 
"Well,  yuh  sure  don't  look  it,"  he  said  bluntly,  at 
length.  "Why  that  elaborate  disguise  of  respectabili- 
ty?" 

Pink  sat  him  down  on  an  empty  beer  case  in  the 
shade  of  the  saloon  and  daintily  rolled  a  cigarette. 

"Yuh  see,  it's  like  this,"  he  began,  in  his  soft  voice 
"When  the  Cross  L  moved  their  stock  across  the  line 
Rowdy  Vaughan  had  charge  uh  the  outfit;  and,  seeing 
we're  pretty  good  friends,  uh  course  I  went  along.  I 
hadn't  been  over  there  a  month  till  I  had  occasion  ^ 

168 


thump  the  daylights  out  uh  one  uh  tftem  bone-headed 
grangers  that  vitiates  the  atmosphere  up  there;  and  1 
put  him  all  to  the  bad.  So  a  bunch  uh  them  gaudy 
buck-policemen  rose  up  and  fogged  me  back  across  the 
line;  a  man  has  sure  got  t'  turn  the  other  cheek  up  there, 
or  languish  in  #<z-ol." 

Pink  brought  the  last  word  out  as  if  it  did  not  taste 
good. 

"I  hit  for  the  home  range,  which  i*  Uppei  Milk 
River.  But  it  was  cussed  lonesome  with  all  the  old 
bunch  gone;  so  I  sold  my  outfit  and  quit  cow-punching 
for  good.  I  wonder  if  the  puncher  lives  that  didn't 
sell  his  saddle  and  bed,  and  reform  at  least  once  in  his 
checkered  career! 

"  I  had  a  fair-sized  roll  so  I  took  the  home  trail  back 
to  Minnesota,  and  chewed  on  the  fatted  calf  all  last 
winter  and  this  summer.  It  wasn't  bad,  only  the  girls 
run  in  bunches  and  are  dead  anxious  to  tie  up  to  some 
male  human.  I  dubbed  around  and  dodged  the  loop 
long  as  I  could  stand  it,  and  then  I  drifted. 

"I  kinda  got  hungry  for  the  feel  of  a  good  horse 
between  m'  legs  once  more.  It  made  me  mad  to  see 

169 


l        n       e Lam        c 

houses  on  every  decent  bed-ground,  and  fences  so 
thick  yuh  couldn't  get  out  and  fan  the  breeze  if  yuh 
tried.  I  tell  yuh  straight,  old-timer,  last  month  I  was 
home  I  plumb  wore  out  mother's  clothes-line  roping 
the  gate-post.  For  the  Lord's  sake,  stake  me  to  a 
string!  and  I  don't  give  a  damn  how  rough  a  one  it  is!" 

Chip  sat  down  on  a  neighboring  case  and  regarded 
the  dapper  little  .figure  curiously.  Such  words,  coming 
from  those  girlishly  rosy  lips,  with  the  dimples  dodging 
in  and  out  of  his  pink  cheeks,  had  an  odd  effect  of  un- 
reality. But  Pink  plainly  was  in  earnest.  His  eyes 
behind  the  dancing  light  of  harmless  deviltry,  were 
pleading  and  wistful  as  a  child. 

"You're  it!"  said  Chip  relievedly."You  can  go  right 
to  work.  Seems  you're  the  man  I've  been  looking  for, 
only  I  will  say  I  didn't  recognize  yuh  on  sight.  We've 
got  a  heap  of  work  ahead,  and  only  five  decent  men  in 
the  outfit.  It's  the  Flying  U;  and  these  five  have  worked 
for  the  outfit  for  years." 

"I  sure  savvy  that  bunch,"  Pink  declared  sweetly. 
"Fye  heard  uh  the  Happy  Family  before.  Ain't  you 
one  uh  them?" 

170 


1        n        e  Lamb 

Chip  grinned  reminiscently.  "I  was,"  he  admitted, 
a  shade  of  regret  in  his  voice.  "Maybe  I  am  yet;  only 
I  went  up  a  notch  last  spring.  Got  married,  and 
settled  down.  I'm  one  of  the  firm  now,  so  I  had  to 
reform  and  cut  out  the  foolishness.  Folks  have  got  to 
calling  the  rest  the  Frivolous  Five.  They're  a  pretty 
nifty  bunch,  but  you'll  get  on  all  right,  seeing  you're 
not  the  pilgrim  you  look  to  be.  If  you  were,  I'd  say: 
'The  Lord  help  you!'  Got  an  outfit?" 

"Sure.  Bought  one,  brand  new,  in  the  Falls.  It's 
over  at  the  hotel  now,  with  a  haughty,  buckskin-colored 
suitcase  that  fair  squeals  with  style  and  newness." 
Pink  pulled  his  silver  belt-buckle  straight  and  patted 
his  pink-and-blue  tie  approvingly. 

"Well,  if  you're  ready,  I'll  get  the  horses  these  two 
hoboes  rode  in,  and  we'll  drift.  By  the  way,  how 
shall  I  write  you  on  the  book?" 

Pink  stooped  and  with  his  handkerchief  carefully 
wiped  the  last  speck  of  Dry  Lake  dust  from  his  shiny 
toes.  "Yuh  won't  crawfish  on  me,  if  I  tell  yuh?"  he 
inquired  anxiously,  standing  up  and  adjusting  his  belt 
again. 

171 


1        n       e  Laml} 

"Of  course  not."  Chip  looked  his  surprise  at  the 
question. 

"Well,  it  ain't  my  fault,  but  my  lawful,  legal  name 
is  Percival  Cadwallader  Perkins." 

"Wha-at?" 

"Percival  Cad-wa//-ader  Perkins.  Shall  I  get  yuh 
Something  to  take  with  it?" 

Chip,  with  his  pencil  poised  in  air,  grinned  sympa- 
thetically. "It's  sure  a  heavy  load  to  carry,"  he  ob- 
served solemnly.  "How  do  you  spell  that  second 
shift?" 

Pink  told  him,  spelling  the  word  slowly,  syllable  by 
syllable.  "Ain't  it  fierce?"  he  wanted  to  know.  "My 
mother  must  have  sure  been  frivolous  and  light-minded 
when  I  was  born.  I'm  the  only  boy  she  ever  had,  and 
there  was  two  grandfathers  that  wanted  a  kid  named 
after  'em;  they  sure  make  a  hot  combination.  Yub 
know  what  Cadwallader  means,  in  the  dictionary  ?" 

"Lord,  no!"  said  Chip,  putting  away  his  book. 

"Battle  arranger,"  Pink  told  him  sadly.  "Now, 
wouldn't  that  jostle  yuh?  It's  true,  too;  it  has  sure  ar- 
ranged a  lot  uh  battles  for  me.  It  caused  me  to  lick 

172 


I        h       e Lamp 

about  six  kids  a  day,  and  to  get  licked  by  a  dozen,  when 
I  went  to  school.  So,  seeing  the  name  was  mine,  and 
*  couldn't  chuck  it,  I  went  and  thro  wed  in  with  an  ex- 
pugilist  and  learned  the  trade  thorough.  Since  then 
things  come  easier.  Folks  don't  open  up  the  subject 
more'n  a  dozen  times  before  they  take  the  hint.  And 
this  summer  I  fell  in  with  a  ju-jutsu  sharp — a  college- 
fed  Jap  that  sure  savvied  things  a  white  man  never 
dreams  except  in  nightmares.  I  set  at  his  feet  all 
summer  learning  wisdom  I  ain't  afraid  now  to  wear 
my  name  on  my  hatband." 

"Still,  I  wouldn't,"  said  Chip  dryly.  "Hike  over 
and  get  the  haughty  new  war-bag,  and  we'll  hit  the  sod. 
I've  got  to  be  in  camp  by  dinner-time." 

A  mile  out  Pink  looked  down  at  his  festal  garments 
and  smiled.  "  I  expect  I'll  be  pickings  for  your  Happy 
Family  when  they  see  me  in  these  war- togs,"  he  re- 
marked. 

Chip  turned  and  regarded  him  meditatively  for  a 
minute.  "I  was  just  wondering,"  he  said  slowly,  "if 
the  Happy  Family  wouldn't  be  pickings  for  you.19 

Pink  dimpled  wickedly  and  said  nothing. 
173 


T       he Lamb 

The  Happy  Family  were  at  dinner  when  Chip  and 
Pink  rode  up  and  dismounted  by  the  bed-tent.  Chip 
and  Pink  went  over  to  where  the  others  were  sitting  in 
various  places  and  attitudes,  and  the  Happy  Famil) 
recieved  them,  not  with  the  nudges  and  winks  one 
might  justly  expect,  but  with  decorous  silence. 

Chip  got  plate,  knife,  fork,  and  spoon  and  started 
for  the  stove. 

"  Help  yourself  to  the  tools,  and  then  come  over  here 
and  fill  up,"  he  invited  Pink,  over  his  shoulder.  "We 
don't  stand  on  ceremony  here.  May  look  queer  to  you 
at  first,  but  you'll  get  used  to  it." 

The  Happy  Family  pricked  up  its  ears  and  looked 
guardedly  at  one  another.  This  wasn't  a  chance  visitor, 
then;  he  was  going  to  work! 

Weary,  sitting  cross-legged  in  the  shade  of  a  wagon- 
wheel  looked  up  at  Pink,  fumbling  shyly  among  the 
knives  and  forks,  and  with  deceitful  innocence  he 
whistled  absently: 

Oh,  tell  me,  pretty  maiden, 

~"    Are  there  any  more  at  home  like  you? 

Pink  glanced  at  him  quickly,  then  at  the  solemn 
174 


The  Lamb 

faces  of  the  others,  and  retreated  hastily  inside  the  tent, 
where  was  Chip;  and  every  man  of  them  knew  the 
stranger  had  caught  Weary 's  meaning.  They  smiled 
discreetly  at  their  plates  and  said  nothing. 

Pink  came  out  with  heaped  plate  and  brimming  cup, 
and  retired  diffidently  to  the  farthest  bit  of  shade  he 
could  find,  which  brought  him  close  to  Cal  Emmett. 
He  sat  down  gingerly  so  as  not  to  spill  anything. 

"  Going  to  work  for  the  outfit  ?"  asked  Cal  politely. 

"Yes,  sir;  the  overseer  gave  me  a  position,"  answered 
Pink  sweetly,  in  his  soft  treble.  "  I  just  came  to  town 
this  morning.  Is  it  very  hard  work?" 

"Yeah,  it  sure  is,"  said  Cal  plaintively,  between 
bites.  "What  with  taming  wild  broncos  and  trying 
to  keep  the  cattle  from  stampeding,  our  shining  hours 
are  sure  improved  a  lot.  It's  a  hard,  hard  life."  He 
sighed  deeply  and  emptied  his  cup  of  coffee. 

"I— I  thought  I'd  like  it,"  ventured  Pink  wistfully* 

"It's  dead  safe  to  prognosticate  yuh  won't  a  little 
bit.  None  of  us  like  it.  I  never  saw  a  man  with  soul 
so  vile  that  he  did." 

"Why  don't  you  give  it  up,  then,  and  get  a  position 
175 


The  Lamb 

at  something  else?"    Pink's  eyes  looked  wide  and 
wistful  over  the  rim  of  his  cup. 

"Can't.  We're  most  of  us  escaped  desperadoes 
with  a  price  on  our  heads."  Cal  shook  his  own  lugu- 
briously. "We're  safer  here  than  we  would  be  any- 
where else.  If  a  posse  showed  up,  or  we  got  wind  of 
one  coming,  there's  plenty  uh  horses  and  saddles  to 
make  a  getaway.  We'd  just  pick  out  a  drifter  and 
split  the  breeze.  We  can  keep  on  the  dodge  a  long 
time,  working  on  round-up,  and  earn  a  little  money  at 
the  same  time,  so  when  we  do  have  to  fly  we  won't  be 
dead  broke." 

"Oh!'  Pink  looked  properly  impressed.  "If  it 
isn't  too  personal — er — is  there  a — that  is,  are  you " 

"  An  outlaw  ?"  Cal  assisted.  "  I  sure  am — and  then 
some.  I'm  wanted  for  perjury  in  South  Dakota,  man- 
slaughter in  Texas,  and  bigamy  in  Utah.  I'm  all  bad." 

"Oh,  I  hope  not!"  Pink  looked  distressed.  "I'm 
very  sorry,"  he  added  simply,  "  and  I  hope  the  posses 
won't  chase  you." 

*Cal  shook  his  head  very,  very  gravely.     "You  can't 
most  always  tell,"  he  declared  gloomily.    "I  expect 

176 


T       he          La m     j? 

I'll     have     an    invite     to    a     necktie-party     .iorne 
day." 

"I've  been  to  necktie-parties  myself."  Pink  bright- 
(ened  visibly.  "I  don't  like  them;  you  always  get  the 
wrong  girl." 

"I  don't  like  'em,  either,"  agreed  Cal.  "I'm  always 
afraid  the  wrong  necktie  will  be  mine.  Were  you  ever 
lynched?" 

Pink  moved  uneasily.  "I — I  don't  remember  that 
I  ever  was,"  he  answered  guardedly. 

"I  was.  My  gang  come  along  and  cut  me  down 
just  as  I  was  about  all  in.  I  was  leading  a  gang " 

"Excuse  me  a  minute,"  Pink  interrupted  hurriedly. 
"I  think  the  overseer  is  motioning  for  me." 

He  hastened  over  to  where  Chip  was  standing  alone, 
and  asked  if  he  should  change  his  clothes  and  get  ready 
to  go  to  work. 

Chip  told  him  it  wouldn't  be  a  bad  idea,  and  Pink, 
•carrying  his  haughty  suit-case  and  another  bulky 
bundle,  disappeared  precipitately  into  the  bed-tent. 

"By  golly!"  spoke  up  Slim,  "it  looks  good  enough 
*x>  eat" 

177 


1        n       e          Lamb 

"Where  did  yuh  pluck  that  modest  flower,  Chip?" 
Jack  Bates  wanted  to  know. 

Chip  calmly  sifted  some  tobacco  in  a  paper.  "I 
picked  it  in  town,"  he  told  them.  "I  hired  it  to  punch 
cows,  and  its  name  is — wait  a  minute."  He  put  away 
the  tobacco  sack,  got  out  his  book,  and  turned  the 
feaves.  "Its  name  is  Percival  Cadwallader  Perkins." 

"Oh,  mamma!  Percival  Cadwolloper  — what?" 
Weary  looked  utterly  at  sea. 

"Perkins,"  supplied  Chip. 

"Percival  —  Cad-wolloper  —  Perkins,"  Weary 
mused  aloud.  "Yuh  want  to  double  the  guard  to- 
night, Chip;  that  name'll  sure  stampede  the  bunch." 

"  He's  sure  a  sweet  young  thing — mamma's  precious 
lamb  broke  out  uh  the  home  corral!"  said  Jack  Bates. 
"I'll  bet  yuh  a  tall,  yellow-haired  mamma  with  flowing 
widow's  weeds'll  be  out  here  hunting  him  up  inside  a 
week.  We  got  to  be  gentle  with  him,  and  not  rub  none 
uh  the  bloom  uh  innocence  off  his  rosy  cheek.  Mamma 
had  a  little  lamb,  his  cheeks  were  red  and  rosy.  And 
everywhere  that  mamma  went — er — everywhere — that 

mamma — went " 

178 


I        n       e Lamb 

"The  lamb  was  sure  to  mosey,"  supplied  Weary. 

"By  golly!  yuh  got  that  backward,"  Slim  objected. 
"It  ought  uh  be:  Everywhere  the  lambie  went,  his 
jiamma  was  sure  to  mosey." 

''  The  reappearance  of  Pink  cut  short  the  discussion 
Pink  as  he  had  looked  before  was  pretty  as  a  poster. 
Pink  as  he  reappeared  would  have  driven  a  matine'e 
crowd  wild  with  enthusiasm.  On  the  stage  he  would 
be  in  danger  of  being  Hobsonized;  in  the  Flying  U 
camp  the  Happy  Family  looked  at  him  and  drew  a 
long  breath.  When  his  back  was  turned,  they  shaded 
their  eyes  ostentatiously  from  the  blaze  of  his  splendor. 

He  still  wore  his  panama,  and  the  dainty  pink-and 
white  striped  silk  shirt,  the  gray  trousers,  and  russet- 
leather  belt  with  silver  buckle.  But  around  his  neck, 
nestling  under  his  rounded  chin,  was  a  gorgeous  rose- 
pink  silk  handkerchief,  of  the  hue  that  he  alwavs  wore 
and  that  had  given  him  the  nickname  of  "  Pink." 

His  white  hands  were  hidden  in  a  pair  of  wonder!  01 
silk-embroidered  buckskin  gauntlets.     His  gray  trousers 
were  tucked  into  number  four  tan  riding-boots,  high  as 
to  heel — so  high  that  they  looked  two  sizes  smaller— 

179 


1        n       e  Lamb 

and  gorgeous  as  to  silk-stitched  tops.     A  shiny,  new 
pair  of  silver-mounted  spurs  jingled  from  his  heels. 

He  smiled  trustfully  at  Chip,  and  leaned,  with  the 
studiously  graceful  pose  of  the  stage,  against  a  hinc 
wheel  of  the  mess-wagon.  Then  he  got  papers  and 
tobacco  from  a  pocket  of  the  silk  shirt  and  began  to 
roll  a  cigarette.  Inwardly  he  hoped  that  the  act  would 
not  give  him  away  to  the  Happy  Family,  whom  he  felt 
in  honor  bound  to  deceive,  and  bewailed  the  smoke- 
hunger  that  drove  him  to  take  the  risk. 

The  Happy  Family,  however,  was  unsuspicious. 
His  pink-and-white  prettiness,  his  clothes,  and  the 
baby  innocence  of  his  dimples  and  his  long-lashed  blue 
eyes  branded  him  unequivocally  in  their  eyes  as  the 
tenderest  sort  of  tenderfoot. 

"Get  onto  the  way  he  rolls  'em — backward!"  mur- 
mured Weary  into  Cal's  ear. 

"If  there's  anything  I  hate,"  Cal  remarked  irrelevant- 
ly to  the  crowd,  "  it's  to  see  a  girl  chewing  a  tutti-frutti 
cud — or  smoking  a  cigarette!" 
^  Pink  looked  up  from  under  his  thick  lashes  and 
opened  his  lips  to  speak,  then  thought  better  of  it    The 

180 


The          Lamb 

jingling  of  the  cawy  comming  in  cut  chort  the  incipient 
banter,  and  Pink  turned  and  watched  intently  the 
corralling  process.  To  him  the  jangling  bells  were 
sweetest  music,  for  which  ears  and  heart  had  hungered 
long,  and  which  had  come  to  him  often  in  dreams. 
His  blood  tingled  as  might  a  lover's  when  his  sweet- 
heart approaches. 

"  Weary,  you  and  Cal  better  relieve  the  boys  on  herd," 
Chip  called.  "I'll  get  you  a  horse,  P— Perkins"— he 
had  almost  said  "Pink" — "and  you  can  go  along. 
Then  to-night  you'll  go  on  guard  with  Cal." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Pink,  with  a  docility  that  would  have 
amazed  any  who  knew  him  well,  and  followed  Chip 
out  to  the  corral,  where  Cal  and  Weary  were  already 
inside  with  their  ropes,  among  the  circling  mass. 

Chip  led  out  a  gentle  little  cow-pony  that  could  al- 
most day-herd  without  a  rider  of  any  sort,  and  Pink 
bridled  him  before  the  covertly  watching  crew.  He 
did  not  do  it  as  quickly  as  he  might  have  done,  for  he 
"played  to  the  gallery"  and  deliberately  fumbled  the 
buckle  and  pinned  one  ear  of  the  pony  down  flat  with 
the  head-stalL 

181 


The  Lamb 

A  new  saddle,  stiff  and  unbroken,  is  ever  a  vexation 
unto  its  proud  owner,  and  its  proper  adjustment  re- 
quires time  and  much  language.    Pink  omitted  the 
language,  so  that  the  process  tool:  longer  than  it  would 
naturally  have  done;  but  Cal  and  Weary,  upon  their* 
mounts,  made  cigarettes  and  waited,  with  an  air  ^r 
endurance,  and  gave  Pink  much  advice.    Then  he  got 
somehow  into  the  saddle  and  flapped  elbows  beside 
them,  looking  like  c,  gorgeous-hued  canary  with  wings 
a-flutter. 

Happy  Jack,  who  had  been  standing  herd  disconso- 
lately with  two  aliens,  stared  open-mouthed  at  Pink's 
approach  and  rode  hastily  to  camp,  fair  bursting  with 
questions  and  comments. 

The  herd,  twelve  hundred  range-fattened  fleers 
grazed  quietly  on  a  side  hill  half  a  mile  or  moro  f*:or_ 
camp.  Pink  ran  a  quick,  appraising  eye  over  the  bunch ; 
estimating  correctly  the  number,  and  noting  thgfc 
splendid  condition.  - 

"Never  saw  so  many  cattle  in  one  bunch  before,  did 
^veried  Cal,  misinterpreting  the  glance, 
shook  his  head  vaguely.    '  'Does  one  man  OWB 
182 


I        n       e  Lamb 

all  those  cows?"  he  wanted  to  know,  with  just  the 
proper  amount  of  incredulous  wonder. 

"  Yeah — and  then  some.  This  ain't  any  herd  at  all; 
just  a  few  that  we're  shipping  to  get  'em  out  uh  the 
Tray  uh  the  real  herds." 

"About  how  many  do  you  think  there  are  here?" 
asked  Pink. 

Cal  turned  his  back  upon  his  conscience  and  winked 
at  Weary.  "Oh,  there's  only  nine  thousand,  seven 
hundred  and  twenty-one,"  he  lied  boldly.  "Last 
bunch  we  gathered  was  fifty-one  thousand  six  hundred 
and  twenty-nine  and  a  half.  Er — the  half,"  he  ex- 
plained hastily  in  answer  to  Pink's  look  of  unbelief, 
'  was  a  calf  that  we  let  in  by  mistake.  I  caught  it,  after 
we  counted,  and  took  it  back  to  its  mother." 

"I  should  think,"  Pink  ventured  hesitatingly,  "it 
would  be  hard  to  find  its  mother.  I  don't  see  how  you 
could  tell." 

"Well,"  said  Cal  gravely,  sliding  sidewise  in  the 
saddle,  "it's  this  way.  A  calf  is  always  just  like  its 
mother,  hair  for  hair.  This  calf  had  white  hind  feet, 
one  white  ear,  and  the  deuce  uh  diamonds  on  its  left 

183 


The  Lamp 

side.  All  I  had  to  do  was  ride  the  range  till  I  found 
the  cow  that  matched." 

"Oh!"    Pink  looked  thoughtful  and  convinced. 

Weary,  smiling  to  himself,  rode  off  to  take  his  station 
at  the  other  side  of  the  herd.  Even  the  Happy  Family 
must  place  duty  a  pace  before  pleasure,  and  Cal,  much 
as  he  would  liked  to  have  continued  the  conversation, 
resisted  temptation  and  started  down  along  the  nearest 
edge  of  the  bunch.  Pink  showed  inclination  to 
follow. 

"You  stay  where  you're  at,  sonny,"  Cal  told  him, 
over  his  shoulder. 

"What  must  I  do?"  Pink  straightened  his  ti  and 
set  his  panama  more  firmly  on  his  yellow  curls,  for  a 
brisk  wind  was  blowing. 

CaPs  voice  came  back  to  him  faintly r  "Just  dub 
around  here  and  don't  do  a  darn  thing:  and  don't 
bother  the  cattle." 

"Good  advice,  that,"  Pink  commented  amusedly, 
"Hits  day-herding  off  to  a  T."  He  prepared  for  a 
lazy  afternoon,  and  enjoyed  every  minute. 

On  th«  way  back  to  camp  at  suppertime,  Pink  rode 
184 


The Lamb 

close  to  Cal  and  looked  as  if  he  had  something  on 
his  mind.  Cal  and  Weary  exchanged  glances. 

"Fd  like  to  ask,"  Pink  began  timidly,  "how  you  fed 
that  calf — before  you  found  his  mother.  Didn't  he 
get  pretty  hungry?" 

"Why,  I  carried  a  bottle  uh  milk  along,"  Cal  lied 
fluently.  "When  the  bottle  went  empty  I'd  catch  a 
cow  and  milk  it." 

"Would  it  stand  without  being  tied?" 

"  Sure.  All  range  cows'll  gentle  right  down,  if  yuh 
know  the  right  way  to  approach  'em,  and  the  words 
to  say.  That's  a  secret  that  we  don't  tell  anybody 
that  hasn't  been  a  cowboy  for  a  year,  and  rede  fourteen 
broncos  straight  up.  Sorry  I  can't  tell  yuh." 

Pink  went  diplomatically  back  to  the  calf.  "Did 
you  carry  it  in  your  arms,  or — " 

"The  calf?  Sure.  How  else  would  I  carry  it?" 
Cal's  big,  baby-blue  eyes  matched  Pink's  for  innocence. 
JI  carried  that  bossy  in  my  arms  for  three  days,"  he 
declared  solemnly,  "before  I  found  a  cow  with  white 
hind  feet,  one  white  ear,  and  the  deuce  uh — er— clubs 


185 


The Lamb 

"Diamonds0*  corrected  Pink,  drinking  in  each  word 
greedily. 

"That's  it:  diamonds,  on  its  right  hind — er-^ 
shoulders " 

"The  calf's  was  on  its  left  side,"  reminded  Pink 
reproachfully.  "I  don't  believe  you  found  the  right 
mother,  after  all!" 

"Yeah,  I  sure  did,  all  right,"  contended  Cal  earnest- 
ly. "I  know,  'cause  she  was  that  grateful,  when  she 
seen  me  heave  in  sight  over  a  hill  a  mile  away,  she  come 
up  on  the  gallop,  a-bawling,  and — er — licked  my 
hand!" 

That  settled  it,  of  course.  Pink  dismounted  stiffly 
and  walked  painfully  to  the  cook-tent.  Ten  months 
out  of  saddle — with  a  new,  unbroken  one  to  begin  on 
again — told,  even  upon  Pink,  and  made  for  extreme 
discomfort 

When  he  had  eaten,  hungrily  and  in  silence,  re 
spending  to  the  mildly  ironical  sociability  of  his  fellows 
with  a  brevity  which  only  his  soft  voice  saved  from 
braskness,  he  unrolled  his  new  bed  and  lay  down  with 
not  a  thought  for  the  part  he  was  playing.  He  heard 

186 


The          Lamb 

with  absolute  indifference  Weary's  remark  outside, 
that  "  Cadwolloper's  about  all  in;  day-herding's  too 
strenuous  for  him. "  The  last  that  came  to  him,  some 
one  was  chanting  relishfully: 

Mamma  had  a  precious  lamb,  his  cheeks  were  red  and  rosy; 
And  when  he  rode  the  festive  bronk,  he  tumbled  on  his  nosey 

There  was  more;  but  Pink  had  gone  to  sleep,  and 
so  missed  it. 

At  sundown  he  awoke  and  went  out  to  saddle  the 
night  horse  Chip  had  caught  for  him,  and  then  went  to 
bed  again.  When  shaken  gently  for  jidcllc  guard,  he 
dressed  sleepily,  added  a  pair  of  white  Angora  chaps 
to  his  afternoon  attire,  and  stumbled  out  into  the  murky 
moonlight. 

Guided  and  coached  by  Cal,  he  took  his  station  and 
began  that  monotonous  round  which  had  been  a  part 
of  the  life  he  loved  best.  Though  stiff  and  sore  from 
unaccustomed  riding,  Pink  felt  quite  content  to  be 
where  he  was;  to  watch  the  quiet  land  and  the  peace- 
ful, slumbering  herd;  with  the  drifting  gray  clouds 


The  Lamp 

above,  and  the  moon  swimming,  head  under,  in  their 
midst.  Twice  in  a  complete  round  he  met  Cal,  going 
in  opposite  direction.  At  the  second  round  Cal  stopped 
him. 

"How  yah  coming?"  he  queried  cheerfully. 

"All  right,  thank  you,"  said  Pink. 

"  Yuh  want  to  watch  out  for  a  lophorned  critter  over 
on  the  other  side,"  Cal  went  on,  in  confidential  tone. 
"He  keeps  trying  to  sneak  out  uh  the  bunch.  Don't 
let  him  get  away;  if  he  goes,  take  after  him  and  fog  him 
back." 

"He  won't  get  away  from  me,  if  I  can  help  it,'3 
Pink  promised,  and  Cal  rode  on,  with  Pink  smiling 
maliciously  after  him. 

As  he  neared  the  opposite  side,  a  dim  shape  angled 
slowly  out  before  him,  moving  aimlessly  away  from  the 
sleeping  herd.  Pink  followed.  Farther  they  went, 
and  faster.  Into  a  little  hollow  went  the  "critter" 
.and  circled.  Pink  took  down  his  rope,  let  loose  a 
good  ten  feet  of  it,  and  spurred  unexpectedly  close  to 
itr 

Whack!    The  rope  landed  with  precision  on  the 
188 


1        n       e  La       m        b 

bowed  shoulders  of  Cal.  "Yuh  will  try  to  fool  your 
betters,  will  yuh?"  Whack!  "I  guess  I  can  point 
out  a  critter  that  won't  stray  out  uh  the  bunch  again 
for  a  spell!"  Whack! 

Cal  straightened,  gasping  astonishment^  in  the  saddle, 
pulled  up  with  a  jerk,  and  got  off,  in  unlovely  mood. 

"And  lean  point  to  a  little  mamma's  lamb  that  won't 
take  down  his  rope  to  his  betters  again,  either  i"  he 
cried  angrily.  "  Climb  down  and  get  your  ears  cuffed 
proper,  yuh  darned,  pink  little  smart  Aleck;  or  them 
shiny  heels'll  break  your  pretty  neck.  Thump  me 
with  a  rope,  will  yuh?" 

Pink  got  down.  Immediately  after,  to  use  a  slang 
term,  they  "mixed."  Presently  Cal,  stretched  the 
long  length  of  him  in  the  grass,  with  Pink  sitting  comfort- 
ably upon  his  middle,  looked  up  at  the  dizzying  swim 
of  the  moon,  saw  new  and  uncharted  stars,  and  near- 
er, dimly  revealed  in  the  half-light,  the  self-satisfied* 
cherubic  face  of  Pink. 

He  essayed  to  rise  and  continue  the  discussion,  and 
discovered  a  quite  surprising  state  of  affairs.  He  could 
scarcely  move:  and  the  more  he  tried  the  more  painful 

189 


The Lamb 

became  Pink's  diabolical  hold  of  him.  He  blinked 
and  puzzled  over  the  mystery. 

"Of  all  the  bone-headed,  feeble-minded  sons-uh- 
guns  it's  ever  been  my  duty  and  pleasure  to  reconstruct," 
announced  Pink  melodiously,  "you  sure  take  the  sour- 
dough biscuit  Your'e  a  song  that's  been  tried  on  the 
cattle  and  failed  t'  connect.  You're  the  last  wail  of  a 
coyote  dying  in  the  dim  distance.  For  a  man  that's 
been  lynched  and  cut  down  and  waiting  for  another 
yank,  you  certainly — are — mild!  You're  the  tamest 
thing  that  ever  happened.  A  lady  could  handle  yub 
with  safety  and  ease.  You're  a  children's  playmate. 
For  a  deep-dyed  desperado  that's  wanted  for  man- 
slaughter in  Texas,  perjury  in  South  Dakota,  and 
bigamy  in  Utah,  you're  the  last  feeble  whisper  of  a 
summer  breeze.  You  cuff  my  ears  proper?  Oht 
my!  and  oh,  fudge!  It  is  to  laugh!" 

Cal,  battered  as  to  features  and  bewildered  as  to 
mind,  blinked  again  and  grinned  feebly. 

"Yuh  try  an  old  gag  that  I  wore  out  on  humans  of 
your  ilk  in  Wyoming,"  went  on  Pink,  waqning  to  the 
subject  "Yuh  load  me  with  stuff  that  would  bring 

190 


The  Lamb 

the  heehaw  from  a  sheep-herder.  Yiih  can't  even  lie 
consistent  to  a  pilgrim.  You're  a  story  that's  been 
told  and  forgotten,  a  canto  that  won't  yhrime,  blank 
verse  with  club  feet.  You're  the  last,  horrible  example 
of  a  declining  race.  You're  extinct" 

"Say"— Pink's  fists  kneaded  energetically  Cal's 
suffering  diaphragm — "are  yuh — all — ba-a-d?" 

"Oh,  Lord!    No.    I'm  dead  gentle.    Lemme  up." 

"D'yuh  think  that  critter  will  quit  the  bunch  ag'in 
to-night?" 

"He  ain't  liable  to,"  Cal  assured  him  meekly. 
"Say,  who  the  devil  are  yuh  anyhow?" 

"I'm  Percival  Cadwallader  Perkins.  Do  yuh  like 
that  name?  Do  yuh  think  it  drips  sweetness  and 
poetry,  like  a  card  uh  honey?" 

"Ouch!    It— it's  swettr 

"You're  a  darn'  liar,"  declared  Pink,  getting  up. 
H  Furthermore,  yuh  old  chuckle-head,  yuh  ought  t* 
fcnow  better  than  try  t'  run  any  ranikaboos  on  me.  Fve 
got  your  pedigree,  right  back  to  the  Flood;  and  it's  safe 
betting  yuh  got  mine,  and  don't  know  it.  Your  best 
girl  happens  to  be  my  cousin." 

191 


1        n       e  Lamb 

Cal  scrambled  slowly  and  painfully  to  his  feet. 
"Then  you're  Milk  River  Pink.  I  might  uh  guesse^ 
*,"  he  sighed. 

"I  cannot  tell  a  lie,"  Pink  averred.  "Only,  plain 
Pmk'll  do  for  me.  Where  d'yuh  suppose  the  bunch  is 
by  this  time?" 

They  mounted  and  rode  back  together.  Cal  was 
deeply  thoughtful. 

"Say,"  he  said  suddenly,  just  as  they  parted  to  ride 
flieir  rounds,  "the  boys'll  be  tickled  plumb  to  death. 
We've  been  wishing  you'd  blow  in  here  ever  since  the 
Cross  L  quit  the  country." 

Pink  drew  rein  and  looked  back,  resting  one  hand  on 
the  cantle.  "My  gentle  friend,"  he  warned,  "yuh 
needn't  break  your  neck  spreading  the  glad  tidings. 
Vuh  better  let  them  frivolous  youths  wise-up  in  their 
own  playful  way,  same  as  you  done. " 

"Sure,"   agreed  Cal,  passing  his  fingers  gingerly 

over  certain  portions   of   his   face.    "I  ain't  a  hog. 

I'm  willing  they  should  have  some  sport  with  yuh,  too." 

-Next  morning,  when  Cal  appeared  at  breakfast  with 

f  Migkt  limp  and  several  inches  of  cuticle  missing  from 

192 


The          Lamb 

his  features,  the  Happy  Family  learned  that  his  horse 
had  fallen  down  with  him  as  he  was  turning  a  stray 
back  into  the  herd. 

Chip  looked  up  quizzically  and  then  hid  a  smile 
behind  his  coffee-cup. 

It  was  Weary  that  afternoon  on  dayherd  who  in- 
dulged his  mendacity  for  the  benefit  of  Pink;  and  his 
remarks  were  but  paving-stones  for  a  scheme  hatched 
overnight  by  the  Happy  Family. 

Weary  began  by  looking  doleful  and  emptying  his 
lungs  in  sighs  deep  and  sorrowful.  When  Pink,  rising 
obligingly  to  the  bait,  asked  him  if  he  felt  bad,  Weary 
only  sighed  the  more.  Then,  growing  confidential, 
he  told  how  he  had  dreamed  a  dream  the  night  before. 
With  picturesque  language,  he  detailed  the  horror  of 
it.  He  was  guilty  of  murder,  he  confessed,  and  the 
crime  weighed  heavily  on  his  conscience. 

"Not  only  that,"  he  went  on,  "but  I  know  thai 
death  is  camping  on  my  trail.  That  dream  haunts 
me.  I  feel  that  my  days  are  numbered  in  words  uh 
one  syllable.  That  dream' 11  come  true;  you  see  if  it 
don't!" 

193 


I        n       e Lam       b 

"I — I  wouldn't  worry  over  just  a  bad  dream,  Mr 
Weary,"  comforted  Pink. 

"  But  that  ain't  all.  I  woke  up  m  a  cold  sweat,  and 
went  outside.  And  there  in  the  clouds,  perfect  as  life, 
I  seen  a  posse  uh  men  galloping  up  from  the  South. 
Down  South,"  he  explained  sadly,  "sleeps  my  victim 
« — a  white-headed,  innocent  old  man.  That  posse  is 
sure  headed  for  me,  Mr.  Perkins." 

"Still,  it  was  only  clouds." 

"Wait  till  I  tell  yuh,"  persisted  Weary,  stubbornly 
refusing  comfort.  "  When  I  got  up  this  morning  I  put 
my  boots  on  the  wrong  feet;  that's  a  sure  sign  that  your 
dream'U  come  true.  At  breakfast  I  upset  the  can  uh 
salt;  which  is  bad  luck.  Mr.  Perkins,  I'm  a  lost  man. " 

Pink's  eyes  widened;  he  looked  like  a  child  listening 
to  a  story  of  goblins.  "  If  I  can  help  you,  Mr.  Weary, 
1  will,"  he  promised  generously. 

"  Will  yuh  be  my  friend  ?  Will  yuh  let  me  lean  on  yub 
In  my  dark  hours  ?  "  Weary 's  voice  shook  with  emotion. 

Pink  said  that  he  would,  and  he  seemed  very  sympa- 
thetic and  anxious  for  Weary's  safety.  Several  times 
during  their  shift  Weary  rode  around  to  where  Pink 

194 


1 n       e          La       m b 

was  sitting  uneasily  his  horse,  and  spoke  feelingly  of 
his  crime  and  the  black  trouble  that  loomed  so  close- 
and  told  Pink  how  much  comfort  it  was  to  be  able  to 
talk  confidentially  with  a  friend. 

When  Pink  went  out  that  night  to  stand  his  shift, 
he  found  Weary  at  his  side  instead  of  Cal.  Wearj 
explained  that  Cal  was  feeling  pretty  bum  on  account 
of  that  fall  he  had  got,  and,  as  Weary  couldn't  sleep, 
anyway,  he  had  offered  to  stand  in  Cal's  place.  Pink 
scented  mischief. 

This  night  the  moon  shone  brightly  at  intervals, 
with  patches  of  silvery  clouds  racing  before  the  wind 
and  chasing  black  splotches  of  shadows  over  the  sleep- 
ing  land.  For  all  that,  the  cattle  lay  quiet,  and  the 
monotony  of  circling  the  herd  was  often  broken  by 
Weary  and  Pink  with  little  talks,  as  they  turned  and 
rode  together. 

"Mr.  Peirkins,  fate's  a-crowding  me  close,"  said 
/Weary  gloomily,  when  an  hour  had  gone  by.  "I  feel 
as  if— what's  that?" 

Voices  raised  in  excited  talk  came  faintly  and  fit- 
fully on  the  wind.  Weary  turned  his  horse,  with  a 

195 


T       h       e          L       a       m       b 

glance  toward  the  cattle,  and,  beckoning  Pink  jc  *<>*- 
low,  rode  out  to  the  right. 

"It's  the  posse!"  he  hissed.  "They'll  go  to  the  herd 
ID  look  for  me.  Mr.  Perkins,  the  time  has  come  to 
fly.  If  only  I  had  a  horse  that  could  drift!" 

Pink  thought  he  caught  the  meaning.  "Is — is 
mine  any  good,  Mr.  Weary?"  he  quavered.  "If  he 
is,  you — you  can  have  him.  I — I'll  stay  and — and 
fool  them  as — long  as  I  can. " 

"Perkins,"  said  Weary  solemnly,  "you're  sure  all 
right!  Let  that  posse  think  you're  the  man  they  want 
for  half  an  hour,  and  I'm  safe.  I'll  never  forget  yuh!" 

He  had  not  thought  of  changing  horses,  but  the  temp- 
tation mastered  him.  He  was  riding  a  little  sorrel, 
Glory  by  name,  that  could  beat  even  the  Happy  Family 
itself  for  unexpected  deviltry.  Yielding  to  Pink's 
persuasions,  he  changed  mounts,  clasped  Pink's  hand 
affectionately,  and  sped  away  just  as  the  posse  appeared 
over  a  rise,  riding  furiously. 

Pink,  playing  his  part,  started  toward  them,  then 
wheeled  and  sped  away  in  the  direction  that  would 
lead  them  off  Weary's  trail.  That  is,  he  sped  for  ten 

196 


1        n       e  Lamb 

rods  or  so.  After  that  he  seemed  to  revolve  on  an  axis, 
and  there  was  an  astonishing  number  of  revolutions 
to  the  minute. 

The  stirrps  were  down  in  the  dark  somewhere  be- 
low the  farthest  reach  of  Pink's  toes — he  never  once 
located  them.  But  Pink  was  not  known  all  over 
Northern  Montana  as  a  "  bronco-peeler "  for  nothing. 
He  surprised  Glory  even  more  than  that  deceitful  bit 
of  horseflesh  had  surprised  Pink.  While  his  quirt 
swung  methodically,  he  looked  often  over  his  shoulder 
for  the  posse,  and  wondered  that  it  did  not  appear. 

The  posse,  however,  was  at  that  moment  having 
troubles  of  its  own.  Happy  Jack,  not  having  a  night 
horse  saddled,  had  borrowed  one  not  remarkable  for 
its  sure-footedness.  No  sooner  had  they  sighted  their 
quarry  than  Jack's  horse  stepped  in  a  hole  and  went 
head-long — which  was  bad  enough.  When  he  got  up 
he  planted  a  foot  hastily  on  Jack's  diaphragm  and  then 
bolted  straight  for  the  peacefully  slumbering  herd — 
which  was  worse. 

With  stirrup-straps  snapping  like  pistol-shots,  he 
tore  down  through  the  dreaming  cattle,  with  none  to 

197 


T       n       e  Lam       b 

stop  hiin  or  say  him  nay.  The  herd  did  not  wait  for 
explanations;  as  the  posse  afterward  said,  it  quit  the 
•arth,  while  they  gathered  around  the  fallen  Jack  and 
ried  to  discover  if  it  was  a  doctor  or  coroner  that  was 
i  needed. 

When  Jack  came  up  sputtering  sand  and  profane 
words,  there  was  no  herd,  no  horse  and  no  Pink  any- 
where in  that  portion  of  Chouteau  County.  Weary 
came  back,  laughing  at  the  joke  and  fully  expecting 
to  see  Pink  a  prisoner.  When  he  saw  how  things  stood, 
the  said  "Mamma  mine!"  and  headed  for  camp  on  a 
run.  The  others  deployed  to  search  the  range  for  a 
beef-herd,  strayed,  and  with  no  tag  for  its  prompt 
delivery. 

Weary  crept  into  the  bed-tent  and  got  Chip  by  the 
shoulder.  Chip  sat  up,  instantly  wide-awake.  "What's 
the  matter?"  he  demanded  sharply. 

"Chip,  we— we've  lost  Cadwolloper!"  Weary's 
roice  was  tragic. 

"Hell!"  snapped  Chip,  lying  down  again.  "Don't 
let-that  worry  yuh. " 

"And  we've  lost  the  herd,  too,"  added  Weary  mildly. 

198 


T       h       e          L       a       m       b 

Chip  got  up  and  stayed  up,  and  some  of  his  remarks. 
Weary  afterward  reported,  were  scandalous. 

There  was  another  scene  at  sunrise  that  the  Happy 
Family  voted  scandalous — and  that  was  when  thej 
rode  into  a  little  coulee  and  came  upon  the  herd, 
quietly  grazing,  and  Pink  holding  them,  with  each  blue 
eye  a  volcano  shooting  wrath. 

"  Yuh  knock-kneed  bunch  uh  locoed  sheep-herders!" 
he  greeted  spitefully,  "if  yuh  think  yuh  can  saw  off 
on  your  foolery  and  hold  this  herd,  I'll  go  and  get  some- 
thing to  eat.  When  I  come  to  this  outfit  t'  work,  I 
naturally  s'posed  yuh  was  cow-punchers.  Yuh  ain't. 
Yuh  couldn't  hold  a  bunch  uh  sick  lambs  inside  a 
high  board  corral  with  the  gate  shut  and  locked  on  the 
outside.  When  it  comes  t'  cow-science,  you're  the 
limit.  Yuh  couldn't  earn  your  board  on  a  ten-acre 
farm  in  Maine,  driving  one  milk-cow  and  a  yearling 
calf  f  pasture  and  back.  You're  a  hot  bunch  ub 
r armies — I  don't  think!  Up  on  Milk  River  they'd 
put  bells  on  every  darn'  one  uh  yuh  t'  keep  yuh  from 
getting  lost  going  from  the  mess-house  t'  the  corra) 
and  back.  And,  Mr.  Weary,  next  time  yuh  give  a 

199 


The  L       a        m        c 

man  a  horse  f  fall  off  from,  for  the  Lord's  sake  don't 
put  him  on  a  gentle  old  skate  that  would  be  pickings 
for  a  two-year-old  kid.  I  thought  this  here  Glory'd 
give  a  man  something  to  do,  from  all  the  yawping  I've 
heard  done  about  him.  I  heard  uh  him  when  I  was 
on  the  Cross  L;  and  I  will  say  right  now  that  he's  the 
biggest  disappointment  I've  met  up  with  in  many  a 
long  day.  He's  punk.  Come  and  get  him  and  let 
me  have  something  alive.  I'm  weary  uh  trying  to 
delude  myself  into  thinking  that  this  red  image  is 
a  horse." 

The  Happy  Family,  huddled  ten  paces  before  him, 
stared.  Pink  slid  out  of  the  saddle  and  came  forward, 
smiling,  and  dimpling.  He  held  out  a  gloved  hand 
to  the  first  man  he  came  to,  which  was  Weary  himself. 
"  Are  yuh  happy  to  meet  Milk  River  Pink?'"  he  wanted 
to  know. 

The  Happy  Family,  grinning  sheepishly,  crowded 
dose  to  shake  him  by  the  hand. 


200 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  RANGE 

AL  EMMETT  straightened  up  with  his  gloved  hand 
pressed  tight  against  the  small  of  his  back,  sighed 
"Hully  Gee!"  at  the  ache  of  his  muscles  and  went  over 
to  the  water  bucket  and  poured  a  quart  or  so  of  cool, 
spring  water  down  his  parched  throat.  The  sun 
blazed  like  a  furnace  with  the  blower  on,  though  it  was 
well  over  towards  the  west;  the  air  was  full  of  smoke, 
dust  and  strong  animal  odors,  and  the  throaty  bawling 
of  many  cattle  close-held.  For  it  was  nearing  the  end 
of  spring  round-up,  and  many  calves  were  learning, 
with  great  physical  and  mental  distress,  the  feel  of  a 
hot  iron  properly  applied.  Cal  shouted  to  the  horse- 
wrangler  that  the  well  had  gone  dry — meaning  the 
bucket — and  went  back  to  work. 

"I  betche  we  won't  git  through  in  time  for  no  pic- 
nic," predicted  Happy  Jack  gloomily,  getting  the  proper 
hold  on  the  hind  leg  of  a  three-months-old  calf. 

201 


The    Spirit    of  the    Range 

"They's  three  hundred  to  decorate  yet,  if  they's  one; 
and  it'll  rain—" 

"You're  batty,"  Cal  interrupted.  "Uh  course  we'll 
get  through — we've  got  to;  what  d'yuh  suppose  we've 
been  tearing  the  bone  out  for  the  last  three  weeks  for?" 

Chip,  with  a  foot  braced  against  the  calf's  shoulder, 
ran  a  U  on  its  ribs  with  artistic  precision.  Chip's 
Flying  U's  were  the  pride  of  the  whole  outfit;  the 
Happy  Family  was  willing  at  any  time,  to  bet  all  you 
dare  that  Chip's  brands  never  varied  a  quarter-inch 
in  height,  width  or  position.  The  Old  Man  and  Shorty 
had  been  content  to  use  a  stamp,  as  prescribed  by  law; 
but  Chip  Bennett  scorned  so  mechanical  a  device  and 
went  on  imperturbably  defying  the  law  with  his  running 
iron — and  the  Happy  Family  gloated  over  his  inde- 
pendence and  declared  that  they  would  sure  deal  a 
bunch  of  misery  to  the  man  that  reported  him.  His 
Flying  U's  were  better  than  a  stamp,  anyhow,  they 
said,  and  it  was  a  treat  to  watch  the  way  he  slid  them 
on,  just  where  they'd  do  the  most  good. 

tl'm  going  home,  after  supper,"  he  said,  giving  just 
the  proper  width  to  the  last  curve*  of  the  two-hundredth 

v  202 


The    Spirit    of  the    Range 

U  he  had  made  that  afternoon.  "  I  promised  Dell  I'd 
try  and  get  home  to-night,  and  drive  over  to  the  picnic 
early  to-morrow.  She's  head  push  on  the  grub-pile, 
2  believe,  and  wants  to  make  sure  there's  enough  to  go 
Around.  There's  about  two  hundred  and  fifty  calves 
(eft.  If  you  can't  finish  up  to-night,  it'll  be  your  funeral." 

"Well,  I  betche  it'll  rain  before  we  git  through— it 
always  does,  when  you  don't  want  it  to,"  gloomed 
Happy,  seizing  another  calf. 

"If  it  does,"  called  Weary,  who  was  branding — with 
a  stamp — not  far  away,  "if  it  does,  Happy,  we'll  pack 
the  bossies  into  the  cook- tent  and  make  Patsy  heat  the 
irons  in  the  stove.  Don't  yuh  cry,  little  boy — we'll 
sure  manage  somehow" 

"Aw  yes — you  wouldn't  see  nothing  to  worry  about, 
not  if  yuh  was  being  paid  for  it.  They's  a  storm  com- 
ing— any  fool  can  see  that;  and  she's  sure  going  to 
come  down  in  large  chunks.  We  ain't  got  this 
amatoor  hell  for  nothing!  Yuh  won't  want  to  do  no 
branding  in  the  cook- tent,  nor  no  place  else.  I  betche-" 

"Please,"  spoke  up  Pink,  coiling  afresh  the  rope 
thrown  off  a  calf  he  had  just  dragged  up  to  Cal  and 

203 


The   Spirit    of  the    Range 

Happy  Jack,  "won't  somebody  lend  me  a  handker- 
chief? I  want  to  gag  Happy;  he's  working  his  hoodoo 
on  us  again." 

Happy  Jack  leered  up  at  him,  consciously  immune 
— for  there  was  no  time  for  strife  of  a  physical  nature, 
and  Happy  knew  it.  Everyone  was  working  his 
fastest. 

"Hoodoo  nothing!  I  guess  maybe  yuh  can't  see 
that  bank  uh  thunderheads.  I  guess  your  sight's 
poor,  straining  your  eyes  towards  the  Fourth  uh  July 
ever  since  Christmas.  If  yuh  think  yuh  can  come 
Christian  Science  act  on  a  storm,  and  bluff  it  down  jest 
by  sayin'  it  ain't  there,  you're  away  off.  I  ain't  that 
big  a  fool;  I — "  he  trailed  into  profane  words,  for  the 
calf  he  was  at  that  minute  holding  showed  a  strong  in- 
clination to  plant  a  foot  in  Happy's  stomach. 

Cal  Emmett  glanced  over  his  shoulder,  grunted  a 
comprehensive  refutation  of  Happy  Jack's  fears  and 
turned  his  whole  attention  to  work.  The  branding 
proceeded  steadily,  with  the  hurry  of  skill  that  makes 
each  motion  count  something  done;  for  though  not  a 
man  of  them  except  Happy  Jack  would  have  admitted 

204 


The    Spirit    of  the    Range 

it,  the  Happy  Family  was  anxious.  With  two  hundred 
and  fifty  calves  to  be  branded  in  the  open  before  night, 
on  the  third  day  of  July;  with  a  blistering  sun  sapping 
the  strength  of  them  and  a  storm  creeping  blackly  out 
of  the  southwest;  with  a  picnic  tugging  their  desires 
and  twenty-five  long  prairie  miles  between  them  and 
the  place  appointed,  one  can  scarce  wonder  that  even 
Pink  and  Weary— born  optimists,  both  of  them — 
eyed  the  west  anxiously  when  they  thought  no  one 
observed  them.  Under  such  circumstances,  Happy 
Jack's  pessimism  came  near  being  unbearable;  what 
the  Happy  Family  needed  most  was  encouragement. 

The  smoke  hung  thicker  in  the  parched  air  and  stung 
more  sharply  their  bloodshot,  aching  eyeballs.  The 
dust  settled  smotheringly  upon  them,  filled  nostrils 
and  lungs  and  roughened  their  patience  into  peevish- 
ness. A  calf  bolted  from  tne  herd,  and  a  "hold-up" 
oian  pursued  it  vindictively,  swearing  by  several  things 
that  he  would  break  its  blamed  neck — only  his  word- 
ing was  more  vehement  A  cinder  got  in  Slim's  eye 
and  one  would  think,  from  his  language,  that  such  a 
thing  was  absolutely  beyond  the  limit  of  man's  endu- 

205 


The    Spirit    of   the    Range 

ranee,  and  a  blot  upon  civilization.  Even  Weary,  the 
sweet-ten  .pered,  grew  irritable  and  heaped  maledic- 
tions on  the  head  of  the  horse-wrangler  because  he  was 
slow  about  bringing  a  fresh  supply  of  water.  Taken 
altogether,  the  Happy  Family  was  not  in  its  sunniest 
mood. 

When  Patsy  shouted  that  supper  was  ready,  they 
left  their  work  reluctantly  and  tarried  just  long  enough 
to  swallow  what  food  was  nearest  For  the  branding 
was  not  yet  finished,  and  the  storm  threatened  more 
malignantly. 

Chip  saddled  Silver,  his  own  particular  "drifter," 
eyed  the  clouds  appraisingly  and  swung  into  the  saddle 
for  a  fifteen-mile  ride  to  the  home  ranch  and  his  wife, 
the  Little  Doctor.  "  You  can  make  it,  all  right,  if  yub 
half  try,"  he  encouraged.  "It  isn't  going  to  cut  loose 
before  dark,  if  I  know  the  signs.  Better  put  your  jaw 
in  a  sling,  Happy — you're  liable  to  step  on  it.  Cheer 
up!  to-morrow's  the  Day  we  Celebrate  in  letters  a  foot 
high.  Come  early  and  stay  late,  and  bring  your  appe-  '• 
-files  along.  Fare-you-well,  my  brothers."  He  rode 
away  in  the  long  lope  that  eats  up  the  miles  with  an 

206 


The    Spirit    of  the    Range 

ease  astonishing  to  alien  eyes,  and  the  Happy  Family 
rolled  a  cigarette  apiece  and  went  back  to  work  rather 
more  cheerful  than  they  had  been. 

Pleasure,  the  pleasure  of  wearing  good  clothes, 
(dancing  light-footedly  to  good  music  and  saying  nice 
things  that  bring  smiles  to  the  faces  of  girls  in  frilly 
dresses  and  with  brown,  wind-tanned  faces  and  eyes 
ashine,  comes  not  often  to  the  veterans  of  the  "Sage- 
brush Cavalry."  They  were  wont  to  count  the  weeks 
and  the  days,  and  at  last  the  hours  until  such  pleasure 
should  come  to  them.  They  did  not  grudge  the  long 
circles,  short  sleeps  and  sweltering  hours  at  the  brand- 
ing, which  made  such  pleasures  possible — only  so  they 
were  not,  at  the  last,  cheated  of  their  reward. 

Every  man  of  them — save  Pink — had  secret  thoughts 
of  some  particular  girl.  And  more  than  one  girl,  no 
doubt,  would  be  watching,  at  the  picnic,  for  a  certain 
lot  of  white  hats  and  sun-browned  faces  to  dodge  into 
sight  over  a  hill,  and  looking  for  one  face  among  the 
group;  would  be  listening  for  a  certain  well-known, 
well-beloved  choru?  of  shouts  borne  faintly  from  a  dis- 
tance— the  clear-toned,  care-naught  whooping  that 

207 


The    Spirit    of  the    Range 

heralded  the  coming  of  Jim  Whitmore's  Happy 
Family. 

To-morrow  they  would  be  simply  a  crowd  of  clean- 
hearted,  clean-limbed  cowboys,  with  eyes  sunny  ana 
untroubled  as  a  child's,  and  laughs  that  were  good  to 
hear  and  whispered  words  that  were  sweet  to  dream 
over  until  the  next  meeting.  (If  you  ask  the  girls  of 
the  range-land,  and  believe  their  verdict,  cowboys 
make  the  very  best  and  most  piquant  of  lovers.)  To- 
morrow there  would  be  no  hint  of  the  long  hours  in  the 
saddle,  or  the  aching  muscles  and  the  tired,  smarting 
eyes.  They  might,  if  pressed,  own  that  they  burnt  the 
earth  getting  there,  but  the  details  of  that  particular 
conflagration  would  be  fa*-,  far  behind  them — for- 
gotten; no  one  could  guess,  to-morrow,  that  they  were 
ever  hot  or  thirsty  or  tired,  or  worried  over  a  threaten- 
ing storm,  or  that  they  ever  swore  at  one  another  ill- 
naturedly  from  the  sheer  strain  of  anxiety  and  muscle- 
«:he. 

By  sundown,  so  great  was  their  industry,  the  last 
ealf  had  scampered,  blatting  resentment,  to  seek  his 
mother  in  the  herd.  Slim  kicked  the  embers  of  the 

208 


The    Spirit    of  the    Range 

branding  fire  apart  and  emptied  the  water-bucket  over 
them  with  a  satisfied  grunt. 

"  By  golly,  I  ain't  mourning  because  brandin's  about 
over,"  he  said.  "I'm  plumb  tired  uh  the  sight  uh 
them  blasted  calves." 

"And  we  got  through  ahead  of  the  storm,"  Weary 
sweetly  reminded  Happy  Jack. 

Happy  looked  moodily  up  at  the  muttering  black 
mass  nearly  over  their  heads  and  said  nothing;  Happy 
never  did  have  anything  to  say  when  his  gloomy  pre- 
dictions were  brought  to  naught. 

"I'm  going  to  get  on  the  bed-ground  without  any 
red  tape  or  argument,  if  yuh  ask  me,"  volunteered  Cal 
Emmett,  rubbing  his  aching  arms.  "We  want  to  get 
an  early  start  in  the  morning." 

"Meaning  sun-up,  I  suppose,"  fleered  Pink,  who 
had  no  especial,  feminine  reason  for  looking  forward 
tfith  longing.  With  Pink,  it  was  pleasure  in  the  aggre 
gate  that  lured  him;  there  would  be  horse  racing  aftei 
dinner,  and  a  dance  in  the  school-house  at  night,  and  a 
season  of  general  hilarity  over  a  collection  of  rockets  and 
Roman  candles.  These  things  appealed  more  directly 

209 


The    Spirit    of  the    Range 

to  the  heart  of  Pink  than  did  the  feminine  element; 
for  he  had  yet  to  see  the  girl  who  could  disturb  the 
normal  serenity  of  his  mind  or  fill  his  dreams  with 
visions  beautiful.  Also,  there  was  one  thing  abou 
ihese  girls  that  did  not  please  him;  they  were  prone  to 
regard  him  as  a  sweet,  amusing  little  boy  whose  dimples 
they  might  kiss  with  perfect  composure  (though  of 
course  they  never  did).  They  seemed  to  be  forever 
taking  the  "Isn't  he  cunning!"  attitude,  and  refused 
to  regard  him  seriously,  or  treat  him  with  the  respect 
they  accorded  to  the  rest  of  the  Happy  Family.  Weary's- 
schoolma'am  had  offended  him  deeply,  at  a  dance  the 
winter  before,  by  patting  him  indulgently  on  the  shoul- 
der and  telling  him  to  "Run  along  and  find  you  a  part- 
ner." Such  things  rankled,  and  he  knew  that  the  girls 
knew  it,  and  that  it  amused  them  very  much.  Worse, 
the  Happy  Family  knew  it,  and  it  amused  them  even 
nore  than  it  amused  the  girls.  For  this  reason  Pink 
#ould  much  prefer  to  sleep  luxuriously  late  and  ride 
over  to  the  picnic  barely  in  time  for  dinner  and  the 
races  afterward.  He  did  not  want  too  long  a  time  with 
the  girls. 

210 


The    Spirit    of  the    Range 

"  Sure,  we'll  start  at  sun-up,"  Cal  answered  gravely. 
"We've  got  to  be  there  by  ten  o'clock,  so  as  to  help  the 
girls  cut  the  cake  and  round  up  all  the  ham  sand 
wiches;  haven't  we,  Weary?" 

"I  should  smile  to  remark,"  Weary  assented  em- 
phatically. "Sun-up  sure  sees  us  on  the  road,  Cad- 
wolloper — and  yuh  want  to  be  sure  and  wear  that  new 
pink  silk  handkerchief,  that  matches  the  roses  in  your 
cheeks  so  nice.  My  schoolma'am's  got  a  friend  visit- 
ing her,  and  she's  been  hearing  a  lot  about  yuh.  She's 
plumb  wild  to  meet  yuh.  Chip  drawed  your  picture 
and  I  sent  it  over  in  my  last  letter,  and  the  little  friend 
has  gone  plumb  batty  over  your  dimples  (Chip  drawed 
yuh  with  a  sweet  smile  drifting,  like  a  rose-leaf  with  the 
dew  on  it,  across  your  countenance,  and  your  hat  pushed 
back  so  the  curls  would  show)  and  it  sure  done  the 
business  for  Little  Friend.  Schoolma'am  says  she's 
a  good-looker,  herself,  and  that  Joe  Meeker  has  took 
to  parting  his  hair  on  the  dead  center  and  wearing  a 
four-inch,  celluloid  collar  week  days.  But  he's  all 
to  the  bad — she  just  looks  at  your  picture  and  smiles 
sad  and  longing." 

211 


The    Spirit    of  the    Range 

"I  hate  to  see  a  man  impose  on  friendship,"  mur- 
mured Pink.  "I  don't  want  to  spoil  your  face  till 
after  the  Fourth,  though  that  ain't  saying  yuh  don't 
deserve  it.  But  I  will  say  this:  You're  a  liar — you 
ain't  had  a  letter  for  more  than  six  weeks." 

"Got  anything  yuh  want  to  bet  on  that?"  Weary 
reached  challengingly  toward  an  inner  pocket  of  his 
vest. 

"Nit.  I  don't  give  a  darn,  anyway  yuL  look  at  it. 
I'm  going  to  bed."  Pink  unrolled  his  "sooguns" 
in  their  accustomed  corner  next  to  Weary's  bed  and 
went  straightway  to  sleep 

Weary  thumped  his  own  battered  pillow  into  some 
semblance  of  plumpness  and  gazed  with  suspicion  at 
the  thick  fringe  of  curled  lashes  lying  softly  upon  Pink's 
cheeks. 

"  If  I  was  a  girl,"  he  said  pensively  to  the  others,  "  I'd 
sure  be  in  love  with  Cadwolloper  myself.  He  don't 
imount  to  nothing,  but  his  face  'd  cause  me  to  lose  my 
appetite  and  pine  away  like  a  wilted  vi'let.  It's  straight, 
about  that  girl  being  stuck  on  his  picture;  I'd  gamble 
she's  counting  the  hours  on  her  fingers,  right  now,  till 

212 


The    Spirit    of   the    Range 

he'll  stand  before  her.  Schoolma'am  says  it'll  be  a 
plumb  sin  if  he  don't  act  pretty  about  it  and  let  her 
love  him."  He  eyed  Pink  sharply  from  the  tail  of  his 
eye,  but  not  a  lash  quivered;  the  breath  came  evenly  and 
softly  between  Pink's  half-closed  lips — and  if  he  heard 
there  was  nothing  to  betray  the  fact. 

Weary  sighed  and  tried  again.  "And  that  ain't  the 
worst  of  it,  either.  Mame  Beckman  has  got  an  attack; 
she  told  Schoolma'am  she  could  die  for  Pink  and  never 
bat  an  eye.  She  said  she  never  knowed  what  true  love 
was  till  she  seen  him.  She  says  he  looks  just  like  the 
cherubs — all  but  the  wings — that  she's  been  working 
in  red  thread  on  some  pillow  shams.  She  was  making 
'em  for  her  sister  a  present,  but  she  can't  give  'em  up, 
now;  she  calls  all  the  cherubs  'Pink/  and  kisses  'em 
night  and  morning,  regular."  He  paused  and  watched 
anxiously  Pink's  untroubled  face.  "  I  tell  yuh,  boys$  it's 
awful  to  have  the  fatal  gift  uh  beauty,  like  CadwoJ- 
loper's  got.  He  means  all  right,  but  he  sure  trifles  i. 
lot  with  girls'  affections — which  ain't  right.  Alammal 
don't  he  look  sweet,  laying  there  so  innocent?  I'm 
sure  sorry  for  Mame,  though."  He  eyed  him  sidelong. 

213 


The    Spirit    of  the    Range 

But  Pink  slept  peacefully  on,  except  that,  after  a  half 
minute,  he  stirred  slightly  and  muttered  something 
about  "drive  that  darned  cow  back."  Then  Weary 
.gave  up  in  despair  and  went  to  sleep.  When  the  tent 
became  silent,  save  for  the  heavy  breathing  of  tired 
men,  Pink's  long  lashes  lifted  a  bit,  and  he  grinned 
maliciously  up  at  the  cloth  roof. 

For  obvious  reasons  he  was  the  only  one  of  the  lot 
who  heard  with  no  misgivings  the  vicious  swoop  of  the 
storm;  so  long  as  the  tent-pegs  held  he  didn't  care  how 
hard  it  rained.  But  the  others  who  woke  to  the  roar 
of  wind  and  the  crash  of  thunder  and  to  the  swish  and 
beat  of  much  falling  water,  turned  uneasily  in  their 
beds  and  hoped  that  it  would  not  last  long.  To  be 
late  in  starting  for  that  particular  scene  of  merry- 
making which  had  held  their  desires  for  so  long  would 
be  a  calamity  they  could  not  reflect  upon  calmly. 

At  three  o'clock  Pink,  from  long  habit,  opened  his 

eyes  to  the  dull  gray  of  early  morning.     The  air 

in  the  tent  was  clammy  and  chill  and  filled  with 

-the  audible  breathing  of  a  dozen  sleeping  men: 

overhead  the  canvas  was  dull  yellow  and  sodden 

214 


The    Spirit    of  the    Rangv 

with  the  steady  drip,  drip,  drop  of  rain.  There 
would  be  no  starting  out  at  sunrise — and  perhaps 
there  would  be  no  starting  at  all,  he  thought  with 
lazy  disappointment,  and  turned  on  his  side  for 
another  nap.  His  glance  fell  upon  Weary's  up- 
turned, slumber-blank  face,  and  his  memory  re- 
verted revengefully  to  the  baiting  of  the  night  be- 
fore. He  would  fix  Weary  for  that,  he  told  him- 
self spitefully;  mentally  measured  a  perpendicular 
line  from  Weary's  face  to  the  roof,  reached  up  and 
drew  his  finger  firmly  down  along  the  canvas  for 
a  good  ten  inches — and  if  you  don't  know  why, 
try  it  yourself  some  time  in  a  tent  with  the  rain 
pouring  down  upon  the  land.  As  if  that  were  not 
enough  he  repeated  the  operation  again  and  again, 
each  time  in  a  fresh  place,  until  the  rain  came 
through  beautifully  all  over  the  bed  of  Weary. 
Then  he  lay  down,  cuddled  the  blankets  up  to  his 
ears,  closed  his  eyes  and  composed  himself  to  sleep, 
at  peace  with  his  conscience  and  the  world — and 
it  did  not  disturb  his  self-satisfaction  when  Weary 
presently  awoke,  moved  sleepily  away  from  one 

215 


The    Spirit    of  t  n  e    Range 

drip  and  directly  under  another,  shifted  again, 
swore  a  little  in  an  undertone  and  at  last  was  forced 
to  take  refuge  under  his  tarpaulin.  After  that 
Pink  went  blissfully  off  to  dreamland. 

At  four  o'clock  it  still  rained  dismally — and  the 
Happy  Family,  waking  unhappily  one  after  an- 
other, remembered  that  this  was  the  Fourth  that 
they  had  worked  and  waited  for  so  long,  "swore  a 
prayer  or  two  and  slept  again.'*  At  six  the  sun 
was  shining,  and  Jack  Bates,  first  realizing  the 
blessed  fact,  called  the  others  jubilantly. 

Weary  sat  up  and  observed  darkly  that  he 
wished  he  knew  what  son-of-a-gun  got  the  tent 
to  leaking  over  him,  and  eyed  Pink  suspiciously; 
but  Pink  only  knuckled  his  eyes  like  a  sleepy  baby 
and  asked  if  it  rained  in  the  night,  and  said  he  had 
been  dead  to  tne  world.  Happy  Jack  came  blund- 
ering under  the  ban  by  asking  Weary  to  remember 
that  he  told  him  it  would  rain.  As  he  slept  beside 
Weary,  his  guilt  was  certain  and  his  punishment, 
Weary  promised  himself,  would  be  sure. 

Then  they  went  out  and  faced  the  clean-washed 
216 


The    Spirit    of   the    Range 

prairie  land,  filled  their  lungs  to  the  bottom  with 
sweet,  wine-like  air,  and  asked  one  another  why 
in  the  dickens  the  night-hawk  wasn't  on  hand  with 
the  cavvy,  so  they  could  get  ready  to  start. 

At  nine  o'clock,  had  you  wandered  that  way, 
you  would  have  seen  the  Happy  Family — a  clean- 
shaven, holiday-garbed,  resplendent  Happy  Family 
— roosting  disconsolately  wherever  was  a  place 
clean  enough  to  sit,  looking  wistfully  away  to  the 
skyline. 

They  should,  by  now,  have  been  at  the  picinic, 
and  every  man  of  them  realized  the  fact  keenly. 
They  were  ready,  but  they  were  afoot;  the  night- 
hawk  had  not  put  in  an  appearance  with  the  saddle 
bunch,  and  there  was  not  a  horse  in  camp  that  they 
might  go  in  search  of  him.  With  no  herd  to  hold, 
they  had  not  deemed  it  necessary  to  keep  up  any 
horses,  and  they  were  bewailing  the  fact  that  they 
had  not  forseen  such  an  emergency — though 
Happy  Jack  did  assert  that  he  had  all  along  ex- ' 
pected  it, 

"By  golly,  I'll  strike  out  afoot  and  hunt  him  up, 
217 


The    Spirit    of  the    Range 

if  he  don't  heave  in  sight  mighty  suddrnt,"  threat- 
ened Slim  passionately,  after  a  long,  dismal  sil- 
ence. "By  golly,  he'll  wisht  I  hadn't,  too." 

Cal  looked  up  from  studying  pensively  his  pat- 
ent leathers.  "Go  on,  Slim,  and  round  him  up. 
This  is  sure  getting  hilarious — a  fine  way  &o  spend 
the  Fourth!" 

"Maybe  that  festive  bunch  that  held  up  the  Lew- 
istown  Bank,  day  before  yesterday,  came  along 
and  laid  the  hawk  away  on  the  hillside  so  they 
could  help  themselves  to  fresh  horses,"  hazarded 
Jack  Bates,  in  the  hope  that  Happy  Jack  woul^ 
seize  the  opening  to  prophesy  a  new  disaster. 

"I  betche  that's  what's  happened,  all  right,"  said 
Happy,  rising  to  the  bait  "I  betche  yuh  won't  sec 
no  horses  t'day — ner  no  night-hawk,  neither." 

The  Happy  Family  looked  at  one  another  and 
grinned. 

"Who'll  stir  the  lemonade  and  help  pass  the 
sandwiches?"  asked  Pink,  sadly.  "Who'll  push, 
wjien  the  school-ma'am  wants  to  swing?  Or  Len 
Adams?  or — " 

218 


The    Spirit    of  the    Range 

"Oh,  saw  off!"  Weary  implored.  "We  can 
think  up  troubles  enough,  Cadwolloper,  without 
any  help  from  you." 

"Well,  I  guess  your  troubles  are  about  over, 
cully — I  can  hear  'em  coming."  Pink  picked  up 
his  rope  and  started  for  the  horse  corral  as  the  be- 
lated cavvy  came  jingling  around  the  nose  of  the 
nearest  hill.  The  Happy  Family  brightened  per- 
ceptibly; after  all,  they  could  be  at  the  picnic  by 
noon — if  they  hurried.  Their  thoughts  flew  to  the 
crowd — and  to  the  girls  in  frilly  dresses — under 
the  pine  trees  in  a  certain  canyon  just  where  the 
Bear  Paws  reach  lazily  out  to  shake  hands  with  the 
prairie  land. 

Up  on  the  high  level,  with  the  sun  hot  against 
their  right  cheeks  and  a  lazy  breeze  flipping  necker- 
chief ends  against  their  smiling  lips,  the  world 
seemed  very  good,  and  a  jolly  place  to  live  in,  and 
there  was  no  such  thing  as  trouble  anywhere. 
Even  Happy  Jack  was  betrayed  into  expecting 
much  pleasure  and  no  misfortune,  and  whistled 
while  he  rode. 

219 


The    Spirit    of   the    Range 

Five  miles  slipped  behind  them  easily — so  easily 
that  their  horses  perked  ears  and  tugged  hard 
against  the  bits.  The  next  five  were  rougher,  for 
they  had  left  the  trail  and  struck  out  across  a 
rough  bit  of  barrenness  on  a  short  cut  to  the  ford 
in  Sheep  Coulee.  All  the  little  gullies  and  wash- 
outs were  swept  clean  and  smooth  with  the  storm, 
and  the  grass  roots  showed  white  where  the  soil 
had  washed  away.  They  hoped  the  rain  had  not 
reached  to  the  mountains  and  spoiled  the  picnic 
grounds,  and  wondered  what  time  the  girls  would 
have  dinner  ready. 

So  they  rode  down  the  steep  trail  into  Sheep 
Coulee,  galloped  a  quarter  mile  and  stopped, 
amazed,  at  the  ford.  The  creek  was  running  bank 
full;  more,  it  was  churning  along  like  a  mill-race, 
yellow  with  the  clay  it  carried  and  flecked  with 
e^reat  patches  of  dirty  foam. 

"I   guess   here's   where   we   don't   cross,"    said 
Weary,  whistling  mild  dismay. 
-'  "Now,  wouldn't  that  jostle  yuh?"  asked  Pink, 
ef  no  one  in  particular. 

220 


The    Spirit   of  the    Range 

"By  golly,  the  lemonade  '11  be  cold,  and  so'll  the 
san'wiches,  before  we  git  there,"  put  in  Slim,  with 
one  of  his  sporadic  efforts  to  be  funny.  "We  got 
t*  go  back." 

"Back  nothing,"  chorused  five  outraged  voices. 
"We'll  hunt  some  other  crossing." 

"Down  the  creek  a  piece — yuh  mind  where  that 
old  sandbar  runs  half  across?    We'll  try  that" 
Weary's  tone  was  hopeful,  and  they  turned  and 
followed  him. 

Half  a  mile  along  the  raging  little  creek  they 
galloped,  with  no  place  where  they  dared  to  cross. 
Then,  loping  around  a  willow-fringed  bend, 
Weary  and  Pink,  who  were  ahead,  drew  their 
horses  back  upon  their  haunches.  Th*y  had  all 
but  run  over  a  huddle  of  humanity  lying  in  the 
.  fringe  of  weeds  and  tall  grasses  that  grew  next  the 
willows. 

"What  in  thunder — "  began  Cal,  pulling  up. 
They  slid  off  their  horses  and  bent  curiously  ov*r 
the  figure.  Weary  turned  it  investigatively  by  ? 
shoulder.  The  figure  stirred,  and  groaned. 

221 


The    Spirit    of  the    Range 

"It's  somebody  hurt;  take  a  hand  here,  and  help 
carry  him  out  where  the  sun  shines.  He's  wet  to 
the  skin."  commanded  Weary  sharply. 

When  they  lifted  him  he  opened  his  eyes  and 
looked  at  them;  while  they  carried  him  tenderly 
out  from  the  wet  tangle  and  into  the  warmth  of 
the  sun,  he  set  his  teeth  against  the  groans  that 
would  come.  They  stood  around  him  uneasily  and 
looked  down  at  him.  He  was  young,  like  them- 
selves, and  he  was  a  stranger;  also,  he  was  dressed 
like  a  cowboy,  in  chaps,  high-heeled  boots  and  sil- 
ver-mounted spurs.  The  chaps  were  sodden  and 
heavy  with  water,  as  was  the  rest  of  his  clothing. 

"He  must  uh  laid  out  in  all  that  storm,  last 
night,"  observed  Cal,  in  a  subdued  voice.  "He — " 

"Somebody  better  ride  back  and  have  the  bed 
wagon  brought  up,  so  we  can  haul  him  to  a  doc- 
tor," suggested  Pink.  "He's  hurt." 

The  stranger's  eyes  swept  the  faces  of  the 
Happy  Family  anxiously.  "Not  on  your  life,"  he 
.protested  weakly.  "I  don't  want  any  doctor — in 
mine,  thank  yuh,  I — it's  no  use,  anyhow." 

222 


The    Spirit   of  the    Range 

"The  hell  it  ain't  I"  Pink  was  drawing  off  his 
coat  to  make  a  pillow.  "You're  hurt,  somehow, 
ain't  yuh?" 

"I'm — dying/'  the  other  said,  laconically.  "So 
yuh  needn't  go  to  any  trouble  on  my  account. 
From  the  looks — yuh  was  headed  for  some — blow- 
out. Go  on,  and  let  me  be." 

The  Happy  Family  looked  at  one  another  in- 
credulously; they  were  so  likely  to  ride  on! 

"I  guess  you  don't  savvy  this  bunch,  old-tinier," 
said  Weary  calmly,  speaking  for  the  six.  "We're 
going  to  do  what  we  can.  If  yuh  don't  mind  tell- 
ing us  where  yuh  got  hurt — " 

The  lips  of  the  other  curled  bitterly.  "I  was 
shot,"  he  said  distinctly,  "by  the  sheriff  and  his 
bunch.  But  I  got  away.  Last  night  I  tried  to 
cross  the  creek,  and  my  horse  went  on  down.  It 
was  storming — fierce.  I  got  out,  somehow,  and 
crawled  into  the  weeds.  Laying  out  in  the  rain—- 
didn't help  me  none.  It's— all  off." 

"There  ought  to  be  something — "  began  Jack 
Bates  helplessly. 

223 


The    Spirit    of  the    Range 

"There  is.  If  yuh'll  just  put  me  away — after- 
wards— and  say  nothing, —  I'll  be — mighty  grate- 
ful." He  was  looking  at  them  sharply,  as  if  a 
great  deal  depended  upon  their  answer. 

The  Happy  Family  was  dazed.  The  very  sud- 
denness of  this  unlooked-for  glimpse  into  the  som- 
ber eyes  of  Tragedy  was  unnerving.  The  world 
had  seemed  such  a  jolly  place;  ten  minutes  ago — 
five  minutes,  even,  their  greatest  fear  had  been 
getting  to  the  picnic  too  late  for  dinner.  And 
here  was  a  man  at  their  feet,  calmly  telling  them 
that  he  was  about  to  die,  and  asking  only  a  hur- 
ried burial  and  a  silence  after.  Happy  Jack  swal- 
lowed painfully  and  shifted  his  feet  in  the  grass. 

"Of   course,    if   yuh'd    feel   better   handing  me 


over—" 


'That'll  be  about  enough  on  that  subject,"  Pink 
interrupted  with  decision.  "Just  because  yuh  hap- 
pen to  be  down  and  out — for  the  time  being — is  no 
reason  why  yuh  should  insult  folks.  You  can  take 
it  for  granted  we'll  do  what  we  can  for  yuh;  the 
question  is,  what?  Yuh  needn'  go  talking  about 

224 


The    Spirit   of  the    Range 

cashing  in — they's  no  sense  in  it  You'll  be  all 
right.—" 

"Huh.  You  wait  and  see."  The  fellow's  mouth 
set  grimly  upon  another  groan.  "If  you  was  shot 
through,  and  stuck  to  the  saddle — and  rode — and 
then  got  pummeled — by  a  creek  at  flood,  and  if 
yuh  laid  out  in  the  rain — all  night —  Hell,  boys! 
Yuh  know  I'm  about  all  in.  I'm  hard  to  kill,  or 
I'd  have  been — dead —  What  I  want  to  know — • 
will  yuh  do  what  I — said?  Will  yuh  bury  me — 
right  here — and  keep  it — quiet?" 

The  Happy  Family  moved  uncomfortably. 
They  hated  to  see  him  lying  that  way,  and  talking 
in  short,  jerky  sentences,  and  looking  so  ghastly, 
and  yet  so  cool — as  if  dying  were  quite  an  every- 
day affair. 

"I  don't  see  why  yiih  ask  us  to  do  it,"  spoke  Cal 

Emmet  bluntly.  "What  we  want  to  do  is  get  yuh 
to  help.  The  chances  is  you  could  be — cured. 
We—" 

"Look  here."  The  fellow  raised  himself  pain- 
fully to  an  elbow,  and  fell  back  again.  "IVe  got 

225 


The    Spirit    of  the    Range 

folks — and  they  don't  know — about  this  scrape. 
They're  square — and  stand  at  the  top — And  they 
don't — it  would  just  about —  For  God  sake, 
boys!  Can't  yuh  see — how  I  feel?  Nobody 
knows — about  this.  The  sheriff  didn't  know — 
they  came  up  on  me  in  the  dusk — and  I  fought 
I  wouldn't  be  taken — And  it's  my  first  bad  break — > 
because  I  got  in  with  a  bad — lot.  They'll  know 
something — happened,  when  they  find — my  horse. 
But  they'll  think — it's  just  drowning,  if  they  don't 
find — me  with  a  bullet  or  two —  Can't  yuh  seef" 

The  Happy  Family  looked  away  across  the  cou- 
lee, and  there  were  eyes  that  saw  little  of  the  yel- 
low sunlight  lying  soft  on  the  green  hillside  be- 
yond. The  world  was  not  a  good  place;  it  was  a 
grim,  pitiless  place,  and — a  man  was  dying,  at 
their  very  feet. 

"But  what  about  the  rest  oh  the  bunch?"  croakec 
Happy  Jack,  true  to  his  misanthropic  nature,  but 
exceeding    husky    as    to    voice.      "They'll    likely 
-tell—" 

The  dying  man  shook  his  head  eagerly.    "They 
226 


The    Spirit    of  the    Range 

won't;  they're  both — dead.  One  was  killed — last 
night.  The  other  when  we  first  tried — to  make  a 
getaway.  It — it's  up  to  you,  boys." 

Pink  swallowed  twice,  and  knelt  beside  hir> 
the  others  remained  standing,  grouped  like  mourn 
ers  around  an  open  grave. 

"Yuh  needn't  worry  about  us,"  Pink  said  softly, 
"You  can  count  on  us,  old  boy.  If  you're  dead 
sure  a  doctor — " 

"Drop  it !"  the  other  broke  in  harshly.  "I  don't 
want  to  live.  And  if  I  did,  I  couldn't.  I  ain't 
guessing — I  know." 

They  said  little,  after  that.  The  wounded  man 
seemed  apathetically  waiting  for  the  end,  and  not 
inclined  to  further  speech.  Since  they  had  tacitly 
promised  to  do  as  he  wished,  he  lay  with  eyes  half 
closed,  watching  idly  the  clouds  drifting  across  tc 
the  skyline,  hardly  moving. 

The  Happy  Family  sat  listlessly  around  on  con- 
venient rocks,  and  watched  the  clouds  also,  and  the 
yellow  patches  of  foam  racing  down  the  muddy 
creek.  Very  quiet  they  were — so  quiet  that  little, 

227 


The    Spirit    of  the    Range 

brown  birds  hopped  close,  and  sang  from  swaying 
weeds  almost  within  reach  of  them.  The  Happy 
Family  listened  dully  to  the  songs,  and  waited. 
They  did  not  even  think  to  make  a  cigarette. 

The  sun  climbed  higher  and  shone  hotly  down 
upon  them.  The  dying  man  blinked  at  the  glare, 
and  Happy  Jack  took  off  his  hat  and  tilted  it  over 
the  face  of  the  other,  and  asked  him  if  he  wouldn't 
like  to  be  moved  into  the  shade. 

"No  matter — I'll  be  in  the  shade — soon  enough," 
he  returned  quietly,  and  something  gripped  their 
throats  to  aching.  His  voice,  they  observed,  was 
weaker  than  it  had  been. 

Weary  took  a  long  breath,  and  moved  closer. 
"I  wish  you'd  let  us  get  help,"  he  said,  wistfully. 
It  all  seemed  so  horribly  brutal,  their  sitting 
around  him  like  that,  waiting  passively  for  him  to 
die. 

"I  know — yuh  hate  it.  But  it's — all  yuh  can  do. 
It's  all  I  want."  He  took  his  eyes  from  the  drift- 
ing, white  clouds,  and  looked  from  face  to  face. 
"You're  the  whitest  bunch — I'd  like  to  know — 

228 


The    Spirit   of   the    Range 

who  yuh  are.  Maybe  I  can  put  in — a  good  word 
for  yuh — on  the  new  range — where  I'm  going. 
I'd  sure  like  to  do — something — " 

"Then  for  the  Lord's  sake,  don't  say  such 
things!"  cried  Pink,  shakily.  "You'll  have  us — 
so  damn  broke  up — " 

"All  right — I  won't.  So  long, — boys.  See  yuh 
later—" 

"Mamma !''  whispered  Weary,  and  got  up  hastily 
and  walked  away.  Slim  followed  him  a  few 
paces,  then  turned  resolutely  and  went  back.  It 
seemed  cowardly  to  leave  the  rest  to  bear  it — and 
somebody  had  to.  They  were  breathing  quickly, 
and  they  were  staring  across  the  coulee  with  eyes 
that  saw  nothing;  their  lips  were  shut  very  tightly 
together.  Weary  came  back  and  stood  with  his 
back  turned.  Pink  moved  a  bit,  glanced  furtively 
at  the  long,  quiet  figure  beside  him,  and  dropped 
his  face  into  his  gloved  hands. 

Glory  threw  up  his  head,  glanced  across  the  cou- 
lee at  a  band  of  range  horses  trooping  down  a 
gully  to  drink  at  the  river,  and  whinnied  shrilly, 

229 


The    Spirit    of   the    Range 

The  Happy  Family  started  and  awoke  to  the  stern 
necessities  of  life.  They  stood  up,  and  walked  a 
little  way  from  the  spot,  avoiding  one  another's 
eyes. 

"Somebody'll  have  to  go  back  to  camp,"  said 
Cal  Emmett,  in  the  hushed  tone  that  death  ever 
compels  from  the  living.  "We've  got  to  have  a 
spade — " 

"It  better  be  the  handiest  liar,  then,"  Jack  Bates 
put  in  hastily.  "If  that  old  loose-tongued  Patsy 
ever  gets  next — " 

"Weary  better  go — and  Pink.  They're  the  best 
liars  in  the  bunch,"  said  Cal,  trying  unsuccessfully 
to  get  back  his  everyday  manner. 

Pink  and  Weary  went  over  and  took  the  drag- 
ging bridle-reins  of  their  mounts,  caught  a  stirrup 
and  swung  up  into  the  saddles  silently. 

"And  say!"  Happy  Jack  called  softly,  as  they 
were  going  down  the  slope.  "Yuh  better  bring — 
a  blanket." 

-  Weary  nodded,  and  they  rode  away,  their 
horses  stepping  softly  in  the  thick  grasses.  When 

230 


The   Spirit   of  the   Range 

they  were  passed  quite  out  of  the  presence  of  the 
dead,  they  spurred  their  horses  into  a  gallop. 

The  sun  marked  mid-afternoon  when  they  re- 
turned, and  the  four  who  had  waited  drew  long 
breaths  of  relief  at  sight  of  them. 

"We  told  Patsy  we'd  run  onto  a — den — " 

"Oh,  shut  up,  can't  yuh?"  Jack  Bates  inter- 
rupted shortly.  "Yuh'll  have  plenty  uh  time  to 
tell  us  afterwards." 

"We've  got  a  place  picked  out,"  said  Cal,  and 
led  them  a  little  distance  up  the  slope,  to  a  level 
spot  in  the  shadow  of  a  huge,  gray  bowlder. 
"That's  his  headstone,"  he  said,  soberly.  "The 
poor  devil  won't  be  cheated  out  uh  that,  if  we 
can't  mark  it  with  his  name.  It'll  last  as  long  as 
he'll  need  it." 

Only  in  the  West,  perhaps,  may  one  find  a  fu- 
neral like  that.  No  minister  stood  at  the  head  of 
the  grave  and  read,  "Dust  to  dust"  and  all  the 
heartbreaking  rest  of  it.  There  was  no  singing 
but  from  a  meadowlark  that  perched  on  a  nearby 
rock  and  rippled  his  brief  song  when,  with  their 


The   Spirit   of  the   Range 

ropes,  they  lowered  the  blanket  wrapped  form. 
They  stood,  with  bare  heads  bowed,  while  the 
meadow  £*rk  sang.  When  he  had  flown,  Pink, 
looking  a  choir-boy  in  disguise,  repeated  softly 
and  incorrectly  the  Lord's  prayer. 

The  Happy  Family  did  not  feel  that  there  was 
any  incongruity  in  what  they  did.  When  Pink, 
gulping  a  little  over  the  unfamiliar  words,  said: 
"Thine  be  power  and  glory — Amen;"  five  clear, 
youthful  voices  added  the  Amen  quite  simply. 
Then  they  filled  the  grave  and  stood  silent  a  minute 
before  they  went  down  to  where  their  horse  stood 
waiting  patiently,  with  now  and  then  a  curious 
glance  up  the  hill  to  where  their  masters  grouped. 

The  Happy  Family  mounted  and  without  a  back- 
ward glance  rode  soberly  away;  and  the  trail  they 
took  led,  not  to  the  picnic,  but  to  camp. 


THE  REVELER 

TTAPPY  JACK,  coming  from  Dry  Lake  where 
he  had  been  sent  for  the  mail,  rode  up  to  the 
Flying  U  camp  just  at  dinner  time  and  dismounted 
gloomily  and  in  silence.  His  horse  looked  fagged — 
which  was  unusual  in  Happy's  mounts  unless  there 
was  urgent  need  of  haste  or  he  was  out  with  the  rest 
of  the  Family  and  constrained  to  adopt  their  pace, 
which  was  rapid.  Happy,  when  riding  alone, 
loved  best  to  hump  forward  over  the  horn  and  jog 
along  slowly,  half  asleep. 

"Something's  hurting  Happy,"  was  Cal  Em- 
mett's  verdict  when  he  saw  the  condition  of  the 
horse. 

"He's  got  a  burden  on  his  mind  as  big  as  a  hay- 
stack," grinned  Jack  Bates.  "Watch  the  way  his 
jaw  hangs  down,  will  yuh?  Bet  yuh  somebody's 
dead." 

233 


The         Keveler 

"Most  likely  it's  something  he  thinks  is  going  to 
happen,"  said  Pink.  "Happy  always  makes  me 
think  of  a  play  I  seen  when  I  was  back  home;  it 
starts  out  with  a  melancholy  cuss  coming  out  and 
giving  a  sigh  that  near  lifts  him  off  his  feet,  and 
he  says:  'In  soo-ooth  I  know  not  why  I  am  so 
sa-ad.'  That's  Happy  all  over." 

The  Happy  Family  giggled  and  went  on  with 
their  dinner,  for  Happy  Jack  was  too  close  for 
further  comments  not  intended  for  his  ears.  They 
waited  demurely,  but  in  secret  mirth,  for  him  to 
unburden  his  mind.  They  knew  that  they  would 
not  have  long  to  wait;  Happy,  bird  of  ill  omen  that 
he  was,  enjoyed  much  the  telling  of  bad  news. 

"Weary's  in  town,"  he  announced  heavily,  com- 
ing over  and  getting  himself  a  plate  and  cup. 

The  Happy  Family  were  secretly  a  bit  disap- 
pointed; this  promised,  after  all,  to  be  tame. 

"Did  he  bring  the  horses?"  asked  Chip,  glanc- 
ing up  over  the  brim  of  his  cup. 
^  "I  dunno,"  Happy  responded  from  the  stove, 
where  he  was  trying  how  much  of  everything  he 

234 


The         Reveler 

could  possibly  pile  upon  his  plate  without  spilling 
anything.  "I  didn't  see  no  horses — but  the  one 
he  was  ridin'." 

Weary  had  been  sent,  two  weeks  ago,  to  the  up- 
per Marias  country  after  three  saddle  horses  that 
had  strayed  from  the  home  range,  and  which  had 
been  seen  near  Shelby.  It  was  quite  time  for  him 
to  return,  if  he  expected  to  catch  the  Flying  U 
wagon  before  it  pulled  out  on  the  beef  roundup. 
That  he  should  be  in  town  and  not  ride  out  with 
Happy  Jack  was  a  bit  strange. 

"Why  don't  yuh  throw  it  out  uh  yuh,  yuh  big, 
long- jawed  croaker?  demanded  Pink  in  a  voice 
queerly  soft  and  girlish.  It  had  been  a  real  griev- 
ance to  him  that  he  had  not  been  permitted  to  go 
with  Weary,  who  was  his  particular  chum. 
"What's  the  matter?  Is  Weary  sick?" 

"No,"  said  Happy  Jack  deliberately,  "I  guess  he 
ain't  what  yuh  could  call  sick/9 

"Why  didn't  he  come  out  with  you,  then?" 
asked  Chip,  sharply.  Happy  did  get  on  one's 
nerves  so. 

235 


The         Reveler 

"Well,  I  ast  him  t'  come — and  he  took  a  shot  at 
me  for  it." 

There  was  an  instant's  dead  silence.  Then  Jack 
Bates  laughed  uneasily. 

"Happy,  how  many  horses  did  yuh  ride  out  to 
camp?" 

Happy  Jack  had,  upon  one  occasion,  looked  too 
long  upon  the  wine — or  whisky,  to  be  more  ex- 
plicit. Afterward,  he  had  insisted  that  he  was  rid- 
ing two  horses  home,  instead  of  one.  He  was  not 
permitted  to  forget  that  defection.  The  Happy 
Family  had  an  unpleasant  habit  of  recalling  the  in- 
cident whenever  Happy  Jack  made  a  statement 
which  they  felt  disinclined  to  credit — as  this  last 
statement  was. 

Happy  Jack  whirled  on  the  speaker.  "Aw,  shut 
up !  I  never  kidnaped  no  girl  ofFn  no  train,  and — " 

Jack  Bates  colored  and  got  belligerently  to  his 
feet.  That  hit  him  in  an  exceedingly  tender  place. 

"Happy,  look  here,"  Chip  cut  in  authoritatively. 
What's  wrong  with  Weary?  If  he  took  a  shot  at 
you,  it's  a  cinch  he  had  some  reason  for  it." 

236 


The         Reveler 

Weary  was  even  dearer  to  the  heart  of  Chip  than 
to  Pink. 

"Ah — he  never!  He's  takin'  shots  permisc'us, 
.emme  tell  yuh.  And  he  ain't  troublin'  about  no 
reason  fer  what  he's  doin'.  He's  plumb  oary- 
eyed — that's  what.  He's  on  a  limb  that  beats  any 
I  ever  seen.  He's  drunk — drunk  as  a  boiled  owl, 
and  he  don't  give  a  damn.  He's  lost  his  hat,  and 
he's  swapped  cay  uses  with  somebody — a  measly 
old  bench — and  he's  shootin'  up  the  town  t'  beat 
hell!" 

The  Happy  Family  looked  at  one  another 
dazedly.  Weary  drunk?  Weary?  It  was  un- 
believeable.  Such  a  thing  had  never  been  heard  of 
before  in  the  history  of  the  Happy  Family.  Even 
Chip,  wfio  had  known  Weary  before  either  had 
known  the  Flying  U,  could  not  remember  any- 
thing of  the  sort.  The  Happy  Family  were  often 
hilarious;  they  had  even,  on  certain  occasions, 
shot  up  the  town ;  but  they  had  done  it  as  a  family 
and  they  had  done  it  sober.  It  was  an  unwritten 
law  among  the  Flying  U  boys,  that  all  riotous  con- 

237 


The         Reveler 

duct  should  occur  when  they  were  together  and 
when  the  Family  could,  as  a  unit,  assume  the  con- 
sequences— if  consequences  there  were  to  be. 

"I  guess  Happy  must  a  rode  the  whole  blame 
saddle-bunch  home,  this  time,"  Cal  remarked, 
with  stinging  sarcasm. 

"Ah,  yuh  can  go  and  see  fer  yourselves;  yuh 
don't  need  t'  take  my  word  fer  nothin',"  cried 
H'appy  Jack,  much  grieved  that  they  should  doubt 
him.  "I  hain't  had  but  one  drink  t'day — and  that 
wasn't  nothin'  but  beer.  It's  straight  goods: 
Weary's  as  full  as  he  can  git  and  top  a  horse.  He's 
sure  enjoyin'  himself,  too.  Dry  Lake  is  all  hisn — 
and  the  way  he's  misusin'  the  rights  uh  ownership 
is  plumb  scand'l'us.  He  makes  me  think  of  a  cow 
on  the  fight  in  a  forty- foot  corral;  nobody  dast 
show  their  noses  outside;  Dry  Lake's  holed  up  in 
their  sullers,  till  he  quits  camp. 

"I  seen  him  cut  down  on  the  hotel  China-cook  jest 
for  tryin'  t'  make  a  sneak  out  t'  the  ice-house  after 
some  meat  fer  dinner.  He  like  t'  got  him,  too. 
Chink  dodged  behind  the  board-pile  in  the  back 

238 


The         Revele? 

yard,  an'  laid  down.  He  was  still  there  when  I 
left  town,  and  the  chances  is  somebody  else  '11  have 
V  cook  dinner  t'day.  Weary  was  so  busy  close- 
herdin'  the  Chinaman  that  I  got  a  chanst  t'  sneak 
i  out  the  back  door  uh  Rusty's  place,  climb  on  m' 
horse  and  take  a  shoot  up  around  by  the  stock- 
yards and  pull  fer  camp.  I  couldn't  git  t'  the 
store,  so  I  didn't  bring  out  no  mail." 

The  Happy  Family  drew  a  long  breath.  This 
was  getting  beyond  a  joke. 

"Looks  t  'me  like  you  fellows  'd  come  alive  and 
do  something  about  it,"  hinted  Happy,  with  his 
mouth  full.  "Weary'll  shoot  somebody,  er  git 
shot,  if  he  ain't  took  care  of  mighty  quick," 

"Happy,"  said  Chip  bluntly,  "I  don't  grab  that 
yarn.  Weary  may  be  in  town,  and  he  may  be  hav- 
ing a  little  fun  with  Dry  Lake,  but  he  isn't  drunk. 
When  you  try  to  run  a  whizzer  like  that,  you  can 
put  me  down  as  being  from  Missouri." 

"Same  here,"  put  in  Pink,  ominously  soft  as  to 
voice.  "Anybody  that  tries  to  make  me  believe 
W«ary's  performing  that  way  has  sure  got  his 

239 


The         Reveler 

"Work  cut  out  for  him.  If  it  was  Happy,  now — " 
"Gee!"  cried  Jack  Bates,  laughing  as  a  possible 
solution  came  to  him.  "I'm  willing  to  bet  money 
he  was  just  stringing  Happy.  I'll  bet  he  done  it 
deliberate  and  with  malice  aforethought,  just  to 
make  Happy  sneak  out  uh  town  and  burn  the  earth 
getting  here  so  he  could  tell  it  scarey  to  the  rest  of 


us." 


"Yeah,  that's  about  the  size  of  it,"  assented  Cal. 

The  Family  felt  that  they  had  a  new  one  on 
Happy  Jack,  and  showed  it  in  the  smiles  they  sent 
toward  him. 

"By  golly,  yes!"  broke  out  Slim.  "Weary's 
been  layin'  for  Happy  for  a  long  while  to  pay  off 
making  the  tent  leak  on  him,  that  night;  he's  sure 
played  a  good  one,  this  time!" 

Happy  carefully  balanced  his  plate  on  the 
wagon-tongue  near  the  doubletrees,  and  stood 
glaring  down  upon  his  tormentors. 

"Aw,  look  here!"  he  began,  with  his  voice  very 
near  to  tears.  Then  he  gulped  and  took  a  more 
warlike  tone.  "I  don't  set  m'self  up  t'  be  a  know- 

240 


The          Reveler 

it-all — but  I  guess  I  can  tell  when  a  man's  full  uh 
booze.  And  I  ain't  claimin'  t'  be  no  Jiujitsu  sharp" 
(with  a  meaning  glance  at  Pink)  "and  I  know  the 
chances  I'm  takin'  when  I  stand  up  agin  the 
bunch — but  I'm  ready,  here  and  now,  t'  fight  any 
damn  man  that  says  I'm  a  liar,  er  that  Weary  was 
jest  thro  win'  a  load  into  me.  Two  or  three  uh  yuh 
have  licked  me  mor'n  once — but  that's  all  right. 
I'm  willing  t'  back  up  anything  I've  said,  and 
yuh  can  wade  right  in  a  soon  as  you're  a 
mind  to. 

"  I  don't  back  down  a  darn  inch.  Weary's  in 
Dry  Lake.  He  is  drunk.  And  he  is  shoot  in'  up 
the  town.  If  yuh  don't  want  t'  believe  it,  I  guess 
they's  no  law  t'  make  yuh — but  if  yuh  got  any 
sense,  and  are  any  friends  uh  Weary's,  yuh'll 
mosey  in  and  fetch  him  out  here  if  yuh  have  t' 
bring  him  the  way  he  brung  ole  Dock  that  time 
Patsy  took  cramps.  Go  on  in  and  see  fer  your- 
selves, darn  yuh!  But  don't  go  shootin'  off  your 
faces  to  me  till  yuh  got  a  license  to." 

This,  if  unassuring,  was  convincing.  The 
241 


The         Reveler 

Happy  Family  stopped  smiling,  and  looked  at  one 
another  uncertainly. 

"I  guess  two  or  three  of  you  better  ride  in  and 
see  what  there  is  to  it,"  announced  Chip,  dryly. 
"If  Happy  is  romancing — "  His  look  was  elo- 
quent. 

But  Happy  Jack,  though  he  stood  a  good  deal 
in  awe  of  Chip  and  his  sarcasm,  never  flinched. 
He  looked  him  straight  in  the  eye  and  maintained 
the  calm  of  conscious  innocence. 

"I'll  go/'  said  Pink,  getting  up  and  throwing 
his  plate  and  cup  into  the  dishpan.  "Mind  yuh,  I 
don't  believe  a  word  of  it;  Happy,  if  this  is  just  a 
sell,  so  help  me  Josephine,  you'll  learn  some  brand 
new  Jiujitsu  right  away  quick." 

"I'll  go  along  too/'  Happy  boldly  retorted,  "so 
if  yuh  want  anything  uh  me,  after  you've  saw 
Weary,  yuh  won't  need  t'  wait  till  yuh  strike 
camp  t'  git  it.  Weary  loadin*  me,  was  he?  Yuh'll 
find  out,  all  uh  yuh,  that  it's  him  that's  loaded." 
^  They  caught  fresh  horses  and  started — Cal, 
Pink,  Jack  Bates  and  Happy  Jack.  And  Happy 

242 


The         Reveler 

stood  their  jeers  throughout  the  ten-mile  ride  with 
an  equanimity  that  was  new  to  them.  For  the 
most  part  he  rode  in  silence,  and  grinned  know- 
ingly when  they  laughed  too  loudly  at  the  joke 
Weary  was  playing. 

"All  right — maybe  he  is,"  he  flung  back,  once. 
"But  he  sure  looks  the  part  well  enough  t'  keep  all 
Dry  Lake  indoors — and  I  never  knowed  Weary  t' 
terrorize  a  hull  town  before.  And  where'd  he  git 
that  horse?  and  where's  Glory  at?  and  why  ain't 
he  comin'  on  t'  camp  t'  help  you  chumps  giggle? 
Ain't  he  had  plenty  uh  time  t'  foller  me  out  and  en- 
joy his  little  joke?  And  another  thing,  he  was 
hard  at  it  when  I  struck  town.  Now,  where'd  yuh 
get  off  at?" 

To  this  argument  they  offered  several  explan- 
ations— at  all  of  which  Happy  grunted  in  great 
disdain. 

They  clattered  nonchalantly  into  Dry  Lake, 
still  unconvinced  and  still  jeering  at  Happy  Jack. 
The  town  was  very  quiet,  even  for  Dry  Lake.  As 
they  rounded  the  blacksmith  shop,  from  where 

243 


f     he         Re     v     e     1     e     r 

they  could  see  the  whole  length  of  the  one  street 
which  the  place  boasted,  a  yell,  shrill,  exultant,  fa- 
miliar, greeted  them.  A  long-legged  figure  they 
knew  well  dashed  down  the  street  to  them,  a  wav- 
ing six-shooter  in  one  hand,  the  reins  held  aloft 
in  the  other.  His  horse  gave  evidence  of  hard 
usage,  and  it  was  a  horse  none  of  them  had  ever 
seen  before. 

"It's  him,  all  right,"  Jack  Bates  admitted  re- 
luctantly. 

"Yip!  Cor'boys  in  town!"  rang  the  slogan  of 
the  range  land.  "Come  on  and — wake  'em  up! 
O  O-o  op-eel"  He  pulled  up  so  suddenly  that  his 
horse  almost  sat  down  in  the  dust,  and  reined  in 
beside  Pink. 

They  eyed  him  in  amaze,  and  avoided  meeting 
one  another's  eyes.  Truly,  he  was  a  strange- 
looking  Weary.  His  head  was  bare  and  dis- 
heveled, his  eyes  bloodshot  and  glaring,  his  cheeks 
flushed  hotly.  His  neck-kerchief  covered  his  chest 
like  a  bib  and  he  wore  no  coat ;  one  shirtsleeve  was 
ren\  from  shoulder  to  cuff,  telling  eloquently  that 

244 


The         Reveler 

violent  hands  had  sought  to  lay  hold  on  him.  His 
long  legs,  clad  in  Angora  chaps,  swung  limp  to  the 
stirrup.  By  all  these  signs  and  tokens,  they  knew 
that  he  was  drunk — joyously,  unequivocally,  vo- 
ciferously drunk! 

Joe  Meeker  peered  cautiously  out  of  the  win- 
dow of  Rusty  Brown's  place  when  they  rode  up,  and 
Cal  Emmett  swore  aloud  at  sight  of  him.  Joe 
Meeker  was  the  most  indefatigable  male  gossip  for 
fifty  miles  around,  and  the  story  of  Weary's  spree 
would  spread  far  and  fast.  Worse,  it  would  reach 
first  of  all  the  ears  of  Weary's  School-ma'am,  who 
lived  at  Meeker's. 

Cal  started  to  get  down;  he  wanted  to  go  in  and 
reason  with  Joe  Meeker.  At  all  events,  Ruby  Sat- 
terlee  must  not  hear  of  Weary's  defection.  It  was 
all  right,  maybe,  for  some  men  to  make  fools  of 
themselves  in  this  fashion;  some  women  would 
look  upon  it  with  lenience.  But  this  was  different ; 
Weary  was  different,  and  so  was  Ruby  Satterlee, 
Cal  meditated  upon  just  what  would  the  most  ef- 
fectually close  the  mouth  of  Joe  Meeker. 

245 


The         R     e     v     e     1     e     i 

But  Weary  spied  him  as  his  foot  touched  the 
ground.  "Oh,  yuh  can't  sneak  off  like  that,  old- 
timer.  Yuh  stay  right  outside  and  help  wake  'em 
up!"  he  shouted  hoarsely. 

Cal  turned  and  looked  at  him  keenly;  looked 
also  at  the  erratic  movements  of  the  gun,  and  re- 
considered his  decision.  Joe  Meeker  could  wait. 

"Better  come  on  out  to  camp,  Weary,"  he  said 
persuasively.  "We're  all  of  us  going,  right  away. 
Yuh.  can  ride  out  with  us." 

Weary  had  not  yet  extracted  all  the  joy  there 
was  in  the  situation.  He  did  not  want  to  ride  out 
to  camp;  more,  he  had  no  intention  of  doing  so. 
He  stood  up  in  the  stirrups  and  declaimed  loudly 
his  views  upon  the  subject,  and  his  opinion  of  any 
man  who  proposed  such  a  move,  and  punctuated 
his  remarks  freely  with  profanity  and  bullets. 

Under  cover  of  Weary's  elocution  Pink  did  a 
bit  of  jockeying  and  got  his  horse  sidling  up  against 
Cal.  He  leaned  carelessly  upon  the  saddle-horn 
and  fixed  his  big,  innocent  eyes  upon  Weary's 
flushed  face, 

246 


The         Reveler 

"He's  pretty  cute,  if  he  is  full,"  he  murmured 
discreetly  to  Cal.  "He  won't  let  his  gun  get  empty 
— see?  Loads  after  every  third  shot,  regular. 
We've  got  to  get  him  so  excited  he  forgets  that 
little  ceremony.  Once  his  gun's  empty,  he's  all  to 
the  bad — we  can  take  him  into  camp.  We'll  try 
and  rush  him  out  uh  town  anyway,  and  shoot  as 
we  go.  It's  our  only  show — unless  we  can  get  him 
inside  and  lay  him  out." 

"Yeah,  that's  what  we'll  have  to  do,"  Cal  as- 
sented guardedly.  "He's  sure  tearing  it  off  in 
large  chunks,  ain't  he  ?  I  never  knew — " 

"Here!  What  you  two  gazabos  making  medi- 
cine about?"  cried  Weary  suspiciously.  "Break 
away,  there.  I  won't  stand  for  no  side-talks — " 

"We're  just  wondering  if  we  hadn't  all  better 
adjourn  and  have  something  to  drink,"  said  Pink 
musically,  straightening  up  in  the  saddle.  "Come 
on — I'm  almighty  dry." 

"Same  here,"  said  Jack  Bates  promptly  taking 
the  cue,  and  threw  one  leg  over  the  cantle.     He 
got  no  further  than  that. 
247 


The         R     e     v     e     i     e     r 

"You  stay  right  up  on  your  old  bench!"  Weary 
commanded  threateningly.  "We're  the  kings  uh 
the  prairie,  and  we'll  drink  on  our  thrones.  That 
so-many-kinds-of-bar-slave  can  pack  out  the  dope 
to  us.  It's  what  he's  there  for." 

That  settled  Pink's  little  plan  to  get  him  inside 
where,  lined  up  to  the  bar,  they  might — if  they 
were  quick  enough — get  his  gun  away  from  him; 
or,  failing  that,  the  warm  room  and  another  drink 
or  two  would  "lay  him  out"  and  render  him  harm* 
less. 

Weary,  shoving  three  cartridges  dexterously 
into  the  chambers  in  place  of  those  just  emptied, 
shouted  to  Rusty  to  bring  out  the  "sheepdip."  The 
four  drew  together  and  attempted  further  consul- 
tation, separated  hastily  when  his  eye  fell  upon 
them,  and  waited  meekly  his  further  pleasure. 
They  knew  beter  than  to  rouse  his  anger  against 
them. 

Weary,  displeased  because  Rusty  did  not  im- 
mediately respond  to  his  call,  sent  a  shot  or  two 
through  the  window  by  way  of  hurrying  him, 

248 


The         Reveler 

Whereupon  Rusty  cautiously  opened  the  door, 
shoved  a  tray  with  bottle  and  glasses  ostentatiously 
out  into  the  sunlight  for  a  peaceoffering,  and  find- 
ing that  hostilities  ceased,  came  forth  in  much  fear 
and  served  them. 

They  drank  solemnly. 

"Take  another  one,  darn  yuh,"  commanded 
Weary. 

They  drank  again,  more  solemnly. 

The  sun  beat  harshly  down  upon  the  deserted 
street,  and  upon  the  bare,  tousled,  brown  head  of 
Weary.  The  four  stared  at  him  uneasily;  they 
had  nevsr  seen  him  like  this  before,  and  it  gave 
him  an  odd,  unfamiliar  air  that  worried  them  more 
than  they  would  have  cared  to  own. 

Only  Pink  refused  to  lose  heart.  "Well,  come 
on — let's  wake  up  these  dead  ones,"  he  shouted, 
drawing  his  gun  and  firing  into  the  air.  "Get 
busy,  you  sleepers!  Yip!  Cowboys  in  town!" 
He  wheeled  and  darted  off  down  the  street,  shoot- 
ing and  yelling,  and  the  others,  with  Weary  in 
their  midst,  followed.  At  the  blacksmith  shop, 

249 


The         R     e     v     e     1     e     r 

Pink,  tacitly  the  leader  of  the  rescuers,  would  have 
gone  straight  on  out  of  town.  But  Weary  whirled 
and  galloped  back,  firing  merrily  into  the  air.  A 
bit  chagrined,  Pink  wheeled  and  galloped  at  his 
heels,  fuming  inwardly  at  the  methodical  reloading 
after  every  third  shot.  Cal,  on  the  other  side, 
glanced  across  at  Pink,  shook  his  head  ruefully  and 
shoved  more  shells  into  his  smoking  gun. 

Back  and  forth  from  the  store  at  one  end  of  the 
street  to  the  blacksmith  shop  at  the  other  they 
rode,  yelling  till  their  throats  ached  and  shooting 
till  their  gun-barrels  were  hot ;  and  Weary  kept  pace 
with  them  and  out-yelled  and  out-shot  the  most 
energetic,  and  never  once  forgot  the  little  cere- 
mony of  shoving  in  fresh  shells  after  the  third 
shot  Drunk,  Weary  appeared  much  more  cau- 
tious than  when  sober.  Pink  grew  hot  and  hoarse, 
and  counted  the  shots,  one,  two,  three,  over  and 
over  till  his  brain  grew  sick. 

On  the  seventh  trip  down  the  street,  a  sleek, 
black  head  appeared  for  an  instant  over  the  top  oi 
the  board-pile  in  the  hotel  yard.  A  pair  of  fright* 

250 


The         Reveler 

ened,  slant  eyes  peered  out  at  them.  Weary,  just 
about  to  reload,  caught  sight  of  him  and  gave  a 
whoop  of  pure  joy. 

"Lord,  how  I  do  hate  a  Chink!"  he  cried,  and 
dropped  to  the  ground  the  three  shells  in  his  hand 
that  he  might  fire  the  two  in  his  gun. 

Pink  yelled  also.  "Nab  him,  Call"  and  caught 
his  gun  arm  the  instant  Weary's  last  bullet  left  the 
barrel. 

Cal  leaned  and  caught  Weary  round  the  neck 
in  a  close  hug.  Jack  Bates  and  Happy^  Jack 
crowded  close,  eager  to  help  but  finding  no  place 
to  take  hold. 

"Now,  you  blame  fool,  come  along  home  and 
quit  disgracing  the  whole  community!"  cried  Cal, 
half  angrily.  "Ain't  yuh  got  any  sense  at  all?" 

Weary  protested;  he  swore;  he  threatened.  He 
was  not  in  the  least  like  his  old,  sweet-tempered 
self.  He  mourned  openly  because  he  had  no  longer 
a  gun  that  he  might  slay  and  spare  not.  He  in- 
sisted that  he  would  take  much  pleasure  in  killing 
them  all  off— especially  Pink.  He  felt  that  Pink 

251 


The         Reveler 

was  the  greatest  traitor  in  the  lot,  and  said  that  it 
would  be  a  special  joy  to  him  to  see  Pink  expire 
slowly  and  in  great  pain.  He  remarked  that  they 
would  be  sorry,  before  they  were  through  with  him, 
and  repeated,  many  times,  the  hint  that  he  never 
forgot  a  friend  or  forgave  an  enemy — and  looked 
darkly  at  Pink. 

"You're  batty,"  Pink  told  him  sorrowfully,  the 
while  they  led  him  out  through  the  lane.  "We're 
the  best  friends  yuh  got — only  yuh  don't  appreci- 
ate us." 

Weary  glared  at  him  through  a  tangle  of  brown 
hair,  and  remarked  further,  in  tones  that  one  could 
hear  a  mile,  upon  the  subject  of  Pink's  treachery 
and  the  particular  kind  of  death  he  deserved  to  die. 

Pink  shrugged  his  shoulder  and  grew  sulky ;  then, 
old  friendship  growing  strong  within  him,  he 
sought  to  soothe  him. 

But  Weary  absolutely  declined  to  be  soothed. 

Cal,  serene  in  his  fancied  favoritism,  attempted 

-'the    impossible,    and    was    greeted   with   language 

which  no  man  living  had  ever  before  heard  from 

252 


The         Reveler 

the  lips  of  Weary  the  sunny.  Jack  Bates  and 
Happy  Jack,  profiting  by  his  experience,  wisely  kept 
silence. 

For  this,  the  homeward  ride  was  not  the  com- 
panionable gallop  it  usually  was.  They  tried  to 
learn  from  Weary  what  he  had  done  with  Glory, 
and  whence  came  the  mud-colored  cayuse  with  the 
dim,  blotched  brand,  that  he  bestrode.  They  asked 
also  where  were  the  horses  he  had  been  sent  to 
bring. 

In  return,  Weary  began  viciously  to  dissect  their 
pedigree  and  general  moral  characters. 

After  that,  they  gave  over  trying  to  question  or 
to  reason,  and  the  last  two  miles  they  rode  in  utter 
silence.  Weary,  tiring  of  venom  that  brought  no 
results,  subsided  gradually  into  mutterings,  and 
then  into  sullen  silence,  so  that,  save  for  his  per- 
sonal appearance,  they  reached  camp  quite  decor- 
ously. 

Chip  met  them  at  the  bed  wagon,  where  they 
slipped  dispiritedly  off  their  horses  and  began  to 
unsaddle — all  save  Weary;  he  stared  around  him, 

253 


The         Revelei 

got  cautiously  to  the  ground  and  walked,  with  that 
painfully  circumspect  stride  sometimes  affected  by 
the  intoxicated,  over  to  the  cook-tent 

"Well,"  snapped  Chip  to  the  others,  "For  once 
in  his  life,  Happy  was  right." 

Weary,  still  planting  his  feet  primly  upon  the 
trampled  grass,  went  smiling  up  to  the  stupefied 
Patsy. 

"Lord,  how  I  do  love  a  big,  fat,  shiny  Dutch 
cook!"  he  murmured,  and  flung  his  long  arms 
around  him  in  a  hug  that  caused  Patsy  to  grunt. 
"How  yuh  was,  already,  Dutchy?  Got  any  pie  in 
this  man's  cow-camp?" 

Patsy  scowled  and  drew  haughtily  away  from 
his  embrace;  there  was  one  thing  he  would  not 
endure,  even  from  Weary:  it  was  having  his 
nationality  too  lightly  mentioned.  To  call  him 
Dutchy  was  a  direct  insult,  and  the  Happy  Family 
never  did  it  to  his  face — unless  the  provocation  was 
very  great.  To  call  him  Dutchy  and  in  the  same 
Jjreath  to  ask  for  pie — that,  indeed,  went  far  be- 
yond the  limits  of  decency. 

254 


The         Revelei 

"Py  cosh,  you  not  ged  any  pie,  Weary  David- 
son, Py  cosh,  I  learns  you  not  to  call  names  py 
sober  peoples.  You  not  get  no  grub  whiles  you  iss 
too  drunk  to  be  decend  mit  folks." 

"Hey?  Yuh  won't  feed  a  man  when  he's  hun- 
gry? Yuh  darn  Dutch — "  Weary  went  into  de- 
tails in  a  way  that  was  surprising. 

The  Happy  Family  rushed  up  and  pulled  him 
off  Patsy  before  he  had  done  any  real  harm,  and 
held  him  till  the  cook  had  got  into  the  shelter  of 
his  tent  and  armed  himself  with  a  frying  pan. 
Weary  was  certainly  outdoing  himself  today.  The 
Happy  Family  resolved  into  a  peace  committee. 

"Aw,  dig  up  some  pie  for  him,  Patsy,"  pleaded 
Cal.  'Yuh  don't  want  to  mind  anything  he  says 
while  he's  like  this;  yuh  know  Weary's  a  good 
friend  to  yuh  when  he's  sober.  Get  some  strong 
coffee — that'll  straighten  him  out." 

"Py  cosh,  I  not  feed  no  drunk  fools.  I  not  care 
if  it  iss  Weary.  He  hit  mine  jaw — " 

"Aw,  gwan!  I  guess  yuh  never  get  that  way 
yourself,"  put  in  Happy  Jack,  ponderously  sarcas- 

255 


The         Reveler 

tic.  "I  guess  yuh  never  tanked  up  in  roundup,  one 
time,  and  left  me  cook  chuck  fer  the  hull  outfit — 
and  I  guess  Weary  never  rode  all  night,  and  had 
the  dickens  of  a  time,  try  in'  t'  get  yuh  a  doctor — 
yuh  old  heathen.  Yuh  sure  are  an  ungrateful  cuss." 

"Give  him  some  good,  hot  coffee,  Patsy,  and 
anything  he  wants  to  eat,"  commanded  Chip,  more 
sharply  than  was  his  habit  "And  don't  be  all  day 
about  it,  either." 

That  settled  it,  of  course;  Chip,  being  foreman, 
was  to  be  obeyed — unless  Patsy  would  rather  roll 
his  blankets  and  hunt  a  new  job.  He  took  to 
muttering  weird  German  sentences  the  while  he 
brought  out  two  pies  and  poured  black  coffee  into 
a  cup.  The  reveler  drank  the  coffee — three  cup? 
of  it — ate  a  whole  blueberry  pie,  and  was  consoled. 
He  even  wanted  to  embrace  Patsy  again,  but  was 
restrained  by  the  others.  After  that  he  went  over 
and  laid  down  in  the  shade  of  the  bed-wagon,  and 
straightway  began  to  snore  with  much  energy  and 
^enthusiasm. 

Chip  watched  him  a  minute  and  then  went  and 
256 


The         Reveler 

sat  down  on  the  shady  side  of  the  bed-tent  and 
began  gloomily  to  roll  a  cigarette.  The  rest  of 
the  Happy  Family  silently  followed  his  example; 
for  a  long  while  no  one  said  a  word. 

It  certainly  was  a  shock  to  see  Weary  lik*  that. 
Not  because  it  is  unusual  for  a  man  of  the  range 
to  get  in  that  condition — for  on  the  contrary,  it  is 
rather  commonplace.  And  the  Happy  Family  had 
lived  the  life  too  long  to  judge  a  man  harshly  be- 
cause of  an  occasional  indiscreet  departure  from 
the  path  virtuous;  they  knew  that  the  man  might 
be  a  good  fellow,  after  all.  In  the  West  grows 
Charity  sturdily,  with  branches  quite  broad  enough 
to  cover  certain  defections  on  the  part  of  such  men 
as  Weary  Davidson. 

For  that,  the  real  shock  came  in  the  utter  un- 
expectedness of  the  thing — and  from  the  fact  that 
a  man,  even  though  prone  to  indulge  in  such  riot- 
ous  conduct,  is  supposed  to  forswear  such  indul- 
gence when  he  has  other  and  more  important  things 
to  do.  Weary  had  been  sent  afar  on  a  matter  of 
business;  he  had  ridden  Glory,  a  horse  belonging 

257 


The         Reveler 

to  the  Flying  U.  His  arrival  without  the  strays 
he  had  been  sent  after;  without  even  the  horse  he 
had  ridden  away — that  was  the  real  disaster.  He 
had  broken  a  trust;  he  had,  apparently,  appropri- 
ated a  horse  that  did  not  belong  to  him,  which  was 
worse.  But  the  Happy  Family  were  loyal,  to  a 
man.  They  did  not  condemn  him;  they  were  only 
waiting  for  him  to  sleep  himself  into  a  condition 
to  explain  the  mystery. 

"Somebody's  doped  him,"  said  Pink  with  de- 
cision, after  three  hours  of  shying  around  the  sub- 
ject. "You'll  see;  somebody's  doped  him  and 
likely  took  Glory  away  when  they'd  got  him  batty 
enough  not  to  know  the  difference.  Yuh  mind  the 
queer  look  in  his  eyes?  And  he  acts  queer.  So 
help  me  Josephine !  I'd  sure  like  to  get  next  to  the 
man  that  traded  horses  with  him." 

The  Happy  Family  breathed  deeply;  they  were 
all,  apparently,  thinking  the  same  thing. 

"By  golly,  that's  what,"  spoke  Slim,  with  de- 
cision. "He  does  act  like  a  man  that  had  been 

i9 

doped." 


The        Reveler 

"Whisky  straight  wouldn't  make  that  much  dif- 
ference in  a  man/'  averred  Jack  Bates.  "Yuh 
can't  get  Weary  on  the  fight,  hardly,  when  he's 
sober;  and  look  at  the  way  he  was  in  town — hot 
to  slaughter  that  Chinaman  that  wasn't  doing  a 
thing  to  him,  and  saying  how  he  hated  Chinks. 
Weary  don't;  he  always  says,  when  Patsy  don't 
make  enough  pie  to  go  round,  that  if  he  was  run- 
ning the  outfit  he'd  have  a  Chink  to  cook." 

"Aw,  look  at  the  way  he  acted  t'  Rusty — and  he 
thinks  a  lot  uh  Rusty,  too,"  put  in  Happy  Jack, 
who  felt  the  importance  of  discovery  and  was  in 
an  unusually  complacent  mood.  "And  he  was  go- 
ing t'  hang  Pink  up  by  the  heels  and — " 

"°;«k  turned  round  and  looked  at  him  fixedly,  and 
Tlappy  Jack  became  suddenly  interested  in  his 
cigarette. 

"Say,  he'll  sure  be  sore  when  he  comes  to  him- 
self, though,"  observed  Cal.  "I  don't  know  how 
he's  going  to  square  himself  with  his  school-ma'am. 
Joe  Meeker  was  into  Rusty's  place  while  the  big 
letting  comes  off;  I  would  uh  given  him  a  gentle 

259 


The         Reveler 

hint  about  keeping  his  face  closed,  only  Weary 
wouldn't  let  me  off  my  horse.  Joe'll  sure  give  - 
high-colored  picture  uh  the  performance." 

'•'Well,  if  he  does,  he'll  regret  it  a  lot,"  prophesied 
Pink.  "And  anyway,  something  sure  got  wrong 
with  Weary;  do  yuh  suppose  he'd  give  up  Glory 
deliberately?  Not  on  your  life!  Glory  comes  next 
to  the  Schoolma'am  in  his  affections." 

"Wonder  where  he  got  that  dirt-colored  cayuse, 
anyhow,"  mused  Cal. 

"I  was  studying  out  the  brand,  a  while  ago," 
Pink  answered.  "It's  blotched  pretty  bad,  but  I 
made  it  out.  It's  the  Rocking  R — they  range  dowi; 
along  Milk  River,  next  to  the  reservation.  I've 
never  had  anything  to  do  with  the  outfit,  but  I'd 
gamble  on  the  brand,  all  right." 

"Well,  how  the  deuce  would  he  come  by  a  Rock- 
ing R  horse?  He  never  got  it  around  here,  any- 
wheres. He  must  uh  got  it  up  on  the  Marias." 

"Then  that  must  be  a  good  long  jag  he's  had — 
-\vhich  I  don't  believe,"  interjected  Cal. 

"Somebody,"  said  Pink  meaningly,  "ought  to 
260 


The         Revelei 

have  gone  along  with  him;  this  thing  wouldn't  uh 
happened,  then." 

"Ye-e-s?"  Chip  felt  that  the  remark  applied 
to  him  as  a  foreman,  rather  than  as  one  of  the 
Family,  and  he  resented  it.  "If  I'd  sent  somebody 
else  with  him,  the  outfit  would  probably  be  out 
two  horses,  instead  of  one — and  there'd  be  two  men 
under  the  bed-wagon  with  their  hats  and  coats 
missing." 

Pink's  eyes,  under  their  heavy  fringe  of  curled 
lashes,  turned  ominously  purple.  "With  all  due 
respect  to  you,  Mr.  Bennett,  I'd  like  to  have  you 
explain — " 

A  horseman  rode  quietly  up  to  them  from  be- 
hind a  thicket  of  choke-cherry  bushes.  Pink,  catch- 
ing sight  of  him  first,  stopped  short  off  and  stared. 

"Hello,  bovs,"  greeted  the  new-comer  gaily, 
"How's  everything?  Mamma!  it's  good  to  get 
amongst  white  folks  again." 

The  Happy  Family  rose  up  as  one  man  and 
stared  fixedly;  not  one  of  them  spoke,  or  moved 
Pink  was  the  first  to  recover. 

261 


The         Reveler 

"Well— I'll  be— damned  I" 

"Yuh  sure  will,  Cadwolloper,  if  yuh  don't  let 
down  them  pretty  lashes  and  quit  gawping.  What 
the  dickens  ails  you  fellows,  anyhow?  Is — is  my 
hat  on  crooked,  or — or  anything?" 

"Weary,  by  all  that's  good!"  murmured  Chip, 
dazedly. 

Weary  swung  a  long  leg  over  the  back  of  Glory 
and  came  to  earth.  "Say,"  he  began  in  the  sunny, 
drawly  voice  that  was  good  to  hear,  "what's  the 
joke?" 

.     The  Happy  Family  sat  down  again  and  looked 
queerly  at  one  another. 

Happy  Jack  glanced  furtively  at  a  long  figure  in 
the  grass  near  by,  and  then,  unhappily,  at  Weary. 

"It's  him,  all  right,"  he  blurted  solemnly. 
"They're  both  him!" 

The  Happy  Family  snickered  hysterically. 

Weary  took  a  long  step  and  confronted  Happy 

Jack.     "I'm  both  him,  am  I?"  he  repeated  mock- 

'  ingly.     "Mamma,  but  you're  a  lucid  cuss!"     He 

turned  and  regarded  the  stunned  Family  judicially. 

262 


The        Reveler 

"If  there's  any  of  it  left,"  he  hinted  sweetly,  "I 
wouldn't  mind  taking  a  jolt  myself;  but  from  the 
looks,  and  the  actions,  yuh  must  have  got  away 
jwith  at  least  two  gallons!" 

"Oh,  we  can  give  you  a  jolt,  I  guess,"  Chip 
retorted  dryly.  "Just  step  this  way." 

Weary,  wondering  a  bit  at  the  tone  of  him,  fol- 
lowed; at  his  heels  came  the  perturbed  Happy 
Family.  Chip  stooped  and  turned  the  sleeping  one 
over  on  his  back ;  the  sleeper  opened  his  eyes  and 
blinked  questioningly  up  at  the  huddle  of  bent  faces. 

The  astonished,  blue  eyes  of  Weary  met  the 
quizzical  blue  eyes  of  his  other  self.  He  leaned 
against  the  wagon  wheel. 

"Oh,  mamma!"  he  said,  weakly. 

His  other  self  sat  up  and  looked  around,  felt  for 
his  hat,  saw  that  it  was  gone,  and  reached  me- 
chanically for  his  cigarette  material. 

"By  the  Lord!  Are  punchers  so  damn  scarce 
in  this  neck  uh  the  woods,  that  yuhVe  got  to  shang- 
hai a  man  in  order  to  make  a  full  crew?"  he  de- 
manded of  the  Happy  Family,  in  the  voice  of 

263 


The         Revelef 

Weary — minus  the  drawl.  "I've  got  a  string  uh 
cay  uses  in  that  darn  stockyards,  back  in  town — 
and  a  damn  poor  town  it  is! — and  I've  also  got  a 
date  with  the  Circle  roundup  for  tomorrow  night. 
What  yuh  going  to  do  about  it?  Speak  up,  for 
I'm  in  a  hurry  to  know." 

The  Happy  Family  looked  at  one  anothet  and 
said  nothing. 

"Say,"  began  Weary,  mildly.  "Did  yuh  say 
your  name  was  Ira  Mallory,  and  do  yuh  mind  how 
they  used  to  mix  us  up  in  school,  when  we  were 
both  kids  ?  'Cause  I've  got  a  hunch  you're  the  same 
irrepressible  that  has  the  honor  to  be  my  cousin." 

"I  didn't  say  it,"  retorted  his  other  self,  pug- 
naciously. "But  I  don't  know  as  it's  worth  while 
denying  it.  If  you're  Will  Davidson,  shake.  What 
the  devil  d'yuh  want  to  look  so  much  like  me,  for? 
Ain't  yuh  got  any  manners?  Yuh  always  was 
imitating  your  betters."  He  grinned  and  got  slowly 
to  his  feet.  "Boys,  I  don't  know  yuh,  but  I've  a 
^hazy  recollection  that  we  had  one  hell  of  a  time 
shooting  up  that  little  townerine,  back  there.  I 

264, 


The        Reveler 

don't  go  on  a  limb  very  often,  but  when  I  do,  folks 
are  apt  to  find  it  out  right  away." 

The  Happy  Family  laughed. 

"By  golly,"  said  Slim  slowly,  "that  cousin  story 
*s  all  right — but  I  bet  yuh  you  two  fellows  are 
twins,  at  the  very  least  1" 

"Guess  again,  Slim,"  cried  Weary,  already  in 
the  clutch  of  old  times.  "Run  away  and  play,  you 
kids.  Insh  and  me  have  got  steen  things  to  talk 
about,  and  mustn't  be  bothered." 


THE  UNHEAVENLY  TWINS 


was  a  dead  man's  estate  to  be  settled, 
over  beyond  the  Bear  Paws,  and  several  hun- 
dred head  of  cattle  and  horses  had  been  sold  to  the 
highest  bidder,  who  was  Chip  Bennett,  01  the  Fly- 
ing U.  Later,  there  were  the  cattle  and  horses  to 
be  gathered  and  brought  to  the  home  range;  and 
Weary,  always  Chip's  choice  when  came  need  of  a 
trusted  man,  was  sent  to  bring  them.  He  was  to 
hire  what  men  he  needed  down  there,  work  the 
range  with  the  Rocking  R,  and  bring  home  the 
stock  —  when  his  men  could  take  the  train  and  go 
back  whence  they  had  come. 

The  Happy  Family  was  disappointed.  Pink  and 
Irish,  especially,  had  hoped  to  be  sent  along;  for 
both  knew  well  the  range  north  of  the  Bear  Paws, 
2nd  both  would  like  to  have  made  the  trip  with 
Weary.  But  men  were  scarce  and  the  Happy  Fam- 

266 


The     Unheavenly    Twins 

ily  worked  well  together — so  well  that  Chip 
.grudged  every  man  of  them  that  ever  had  to  be 
sent  afar.  So  Weary  went  alone,  and  Pink  and 
Irish  watched  him  wistfully  when  he  rode  away 
and  were  extremely  unpleasant  companions  for  the 
rest  of  that  day,  at  least. 

Over  beyond  the  Bear  Paws  men  seemed  scarcer 
•even  than  around  the  Flying  U  range.  Weary 
scouted  fruitlessly  for  help,  wasted  two  days  in  the 
search,  and  then  rode  to  Bullhook  and  sent  this 
wire — collect — to  Chip,  and  grinned  as  he  won- 
dered how  much  it  would  cost.  He,  too,  had  rather 
resented  being  sent  off  down  there  alone. 

"C.  BENNETT,  Dry  Lake : 

Can't  get  a  man  here  for  love  or  money.  Have 
tried  both,  and  held  one  up  with  a  gun.  No  use. 
Couldn't  top  a  saw  horse.  For  the  Lord's  sake, 
send  somebody  I  know.  I  want  Irish  and  Pink 
and  Happy — and  I  want  them  bad.  Get  a  move  on. 

W.  DAVIDSON." 

Chip  grinned  when  he  read  it,  paid  the  bill,  and 
267 


The     Unheavenly    Twins 

told  the  three  to  get  ready  to  hit  the  trail.  And 
the  three  grinned  answer  and  immediately  became 
very  busy;  hitting  the  trail,  in  this  case,  meant 
catching  the  next  train  out  of  Dry  Lake,  for  there 
were  horses  bought  with  the  cattle,  and  much  time 
would  be  saved  by  making  up  an  outfit  down  there. 

Weary  rode  dispiritedly  into  Sleepy  Trail 
(which  Irish  usually  spoke  of  as  Camas,  because  it 
had  but  lately  been  rechristened  to  avoid  conflic- 
tions  with  another  Camas  farther  up  on  Milk 
River).  Weary  thought,  as  he  dismounted  from 
Glory,  which  he  had  brought  with  him  from  home, 
that  Sleepy  Trail  fitted  the  place  exactly,  and  that 
whenever  he  heard  Irish  refer  to  it  as  Camas,  he 
would  call  him  down  and  make  him  use  this  other 
and  more  appropriate  title. 

Sleepy  it  was,  in  that  hazy  sunshine  of  mid  fore- 
noon, and  apparently  deserted.  He  tied  -Glory  to 
the  long  hitching  pole  where  a  mild-eyed  gray  stood 
dpzing  on  three  legs,  and  went  striding,  rowels 
a-clank,  into  the  saloon.  He  had  not  had  any 


The     Unheavenly    Twins 

answer  to  his  telegram,  and  the  world  did  not  look 
so  very  good  to  him.  He  did  not  know  that  Pink 
and  Irish  and  Happy  Jack  were  even  then  speed- 
ing over  the  prairies  on  the  eastbound  train  from 
Dry  Lake,  to  meet  him.  He  had  come  to  Sleepy 
Trail  to  wait  for  the  next  stage,  on  a  mere  hope  of 
some  message  from  the  Flying  U. 

The  bartender  looked  up,  gave  a  little,  welcom- 
ing whoop  and  leaned  half  over  the  bar,  hand  ex- 
tended. "Hello,  Irish!  Lord!  When  did  you  get 
back?" 

Weary  smiled  and  shook  the  hand  with  much 
emphasis.  Irish  had  once  created  a  sensation  in 
Dry  Lake  by  being  taken  for  Weary;  Weary  won- 
dered if,  in  the  guise  of  Irish,  there  might  not  be 
some  diversion  for  him  here  in  Sleepy  Trail.  He 
remembered  the  maxim  "Turn  about  is  fair  play," 
and  immediately  acted  thereon. 

"I  just  came  down  from  the  Flying  U  the  other 
day,"  he  said. 

The  bartender  half  turned,  reached  a  tall,  ribbed 
bottle  and  two  glasses,  and  set  them  on  the  bai 

269 


The     Unheavenly    Twins 

before  Weary.  "Go  to  it,"  he  invited  cordially. 
"I'll  gamble  yuh  brought  your  thirst  right  along 
with  yuh — and  that's  your  pet  brand.  Back  to 
stay?" 

Weary  poured  himself  a  modest  "two  fingers," 
and  wondered  if  he  had  better  claim  to  have  re- 
formed; Irish  could — and  did — drink  long  and 
deep,  where  Weary  indulged  but  moderately. 

"No,"  he  said,  setting  the  glass  down  without 
refilling.  "They  sent  me  back  on  business.  How's 
everything  ?" 

The  bartender  spoke  his  wonder  at  the  empty 
glass,  listened  while  Weary  explained  how  he  had 
cut  down  his  liquid  refreshments  "just  to  see  how 
it  would  go,  and  which  was  boss,"  and  then  told 
much  unmeaning  gossip  about  men  and  women 
Weary  had  never  heard  of  before. 

Weary  listened  with  exaggerated  interest,  and 
wondered  what  the  fellow  would  do  if  he  told  him 
he  was  not  Irish  Mallory  at  all.  He  reflected,  with 
spme  amusement,  that  he  did  not  even  know  what 
to  call  the  bartender,  and  tried  to  remember  if  Irish 

270 


The     Unheavenly    Twini 

had  ever  mentioned  him.  He  was  about  to  state 
quietly  that  he  had  never  met  him  before,  and 
watch  the  surprise  of  the  other,  when  the  bartender 
grew  more  interesting. 

"And  say !  yuh'd  best  keep  your  gun  strapped  on 
yuh,  whilst  you're  down  here,"  he  told  Weary,  with 
some  earnestness.  "Spikes  Weber  is  in  this  coun- 
try— come  just  after  yuh  left;  fact  is,  he's  got  it 
into  his  block  that  you  left  because  he  come. 
Brought  his  wife  along — say!  I  feel  sorry  for  that 
little  woman — and  when  he  ain't  bowling  up  and 
singing  his  war-song  about  you,  and  all  he'll  do 
when  he  meets  up  with  yuh,  he's  dealing  her  misery 
and  keeping  cases  that  nobody  runs  off  with  her. 
Why,  at  dances,  he  won't  let  her  dance  with  nobody 
but  him!  Goes  plumb  wild,  sometimes,  when  it's 
'change  partners'  in  a  square  dance,  and  he  sees 
her  swingin'  with  somebody  he  thinks  looks  good 
to  her.  I've  saw  him  raising  hell  with  her,  off  in 
some  corner  between  dances,  and  her  trying  not  to 
let  on  she's  cryin'.  He's  dead  sure  you're  still  crazy 
over  her,  and  ready  to  steal  her  away  from  him 

271 


The    Unheavenly    Twins 

first  chance,  only  you're  afraid  uh  him.  He  never 
gits  full  but  he  reads  out  your  pedigree  to  the 
crowd.  So  I  just  thought  I'd  tell  you,  and  let  yuh 
be  on  your  guard." 

"Thanks,"  said  Weary,  getting  out  papers  and 
tobacco.  "And  whereabouts  will  I  find  this  lovely 
specimen  uh  manhood?" 

"They're  stopping  over  fa  Bill  Mason's;  but  yuh 
better  not  go  hunting  trouble,  Irish.  That's  the 
worst  about  putting  yuh  next  to  the  lay.  You  sure 
do  love  a  fight.  But  I  thought  I'd  let  yuh  know, 
as  a  friend,  so  he  wouldn't  take  you  unawares. 
Don't  be  a  fool  and  go  out  looking  for  him,  though ; 
he  ain't  worth  the  trouble." 

"I  won't,"  Weary  promised  generously.  "I 
haven't  lost  nobody  that  looks  like  Spikes-er-"  he 
searched  his  memory  frantically  for  the  other 
name,  failed  to  get  it,  and  busied  himself  with  his 
cigarette,  looking  mean  and  bloodthirsty  to  make 
up.  "Still,"  he  added  darkly,  "if  I  should  happen 
tor' meet  up  with  him,  yuh  couldn't  blame  me — " 

"Oh,  sure  not!"  the  bartender  hastened  to  cut 
272 


The    Unheavenly    Twins 

in.  "It'd  be  a  case  uh  self-defence — the  way  he's 
been  makin'  threats.  But — " 

"Maybe,"  hazarded  Weary  mildly,  "you'd  kinda 
like  to  see — her —  a  widow  ?" 

"From  all  accounts,"  the  other  retorted,  flushing 
a  bit  nevertheless,  "If  yuh  make  her  a  widow,  yuh 
won't  leave  her  that  way  long.  I've  heard  it  said 
you  was  pretty  far  gone,  there." 

Weary  considered,  the  while  he  struck  another 
match  and  relighted  his  cigarette.  He  had  not  ex- 
pected to  lay  bare  any  romance  in  the  somewhat 
tumultuous  past  of  Irish.  Irish  had  not  seemed 
the  sort  of  fellow  who  had  an  unhappy  love  affair 
to  dream  of  nights;  he  had  seemed  a  particularly 
whole-hearted  young  man. 

"Well,  yuh  see,"  he  said  vaguely,  "Maybe  IVe 
got  over  it." 

The  bartender  regarded  him  fixedly  and  un- 
believingly. "You'll  have  quite  a  contract  making 
Spikes  swallow  that,"  he  remarked  drily. 

"Oh,  damn  Spikes,"  murmured  Weary,  with  the 
fine  recklessness  of  Irish  in  his  tone. 


The     Unheavenly    Twins 

At  that  moment  a  cowboy  jangled  in,  caught 
sight  of  Weary's  back  and  fell  upon  him  joyously, 
hailing  him  as  Irish.  Weary  was  very  glad  to  see 
him,  and  listened  assiduously  for  something  that 
would  give  him  a  clue  to  the  fellow's  identity.  In  the 
meantime  he  called  him  "Say,  Old-timer,"  and 
"Cully."  It  had  come  to  be  a  self-instituted  point 
of  honor  to  play  the  game  through  without  blunder- 
ing. He  waved  his  hand  hospitably  toward  the 
ribbed  bottle,  and  told  the  stranger  to  "Throw  into 
yuh,  Old-timer — it's  on  me."  And  when  Old- 
timer  straightway  began  doing  so,  Weary  leaned 
against  the  bar  and  wiped  his  forehead,  and  won- 
dered who  the  dickens  the  fellow  could  be.  In  Dry 
Lake,  Irish  had  been — well,  hilarious — and  not  ac- 
countable for  any  little  peculiarities.  In  Sleepy 
.Trail  Weary  was,  perhaps  he  considered  unfor- 
tunately, sober  and  therefore  obliged  to  feel  his 
way  carefully. 

"Say!  yuh  want  to  keep  your  eyes  peeled  for 
'Spikes  Weber,  Irish,"  remarked  the  unknown,  after 
two  drinks.  "He's  pawing  up  the  earth  whenever 

274 


The     Unheavenly    Twins 

he  hears  your  name  called.  He's  sure  anxious  to 
see  the  sod  packed  down  nice  on  top  uh  yuh." 

"So  I  heard;  his  nibs  here,"  indicating  the  bar- 
tender, "has  been  wising  me  up,  a  lot.  When's  the 
stage  due,  tomorrow,  Oldtimer?"  Weary  was  get- 
ting a  bit  ashamed  of  addressing  them  both  impar- 
tially in  that  manner,  but  it  was  the  best  he  could 
do,  not  knowing  the  names  men  called  them.  In 
this  instance  he  spoke  to  the  bartender. 

"Why,  yuh  going  to  pull  out  while  your  hide's 
whole?"  bantered  the  cowboy,  with  the  freedom 
which  long  acquaintance  breeds. 

"I've  got  business  out  uh  town,  and  I  want  to  be 
back  time  the  stage  pulls  in." 

"Well,  Limpy's  still  holding  the  ribbons  over  them 
buckskins  uh  his,  and  he  ain't  varied  five  minutes 
in  five  years,"  responded  the  bartender.  "So  I 
guess  yuh  can  look  for  him  same  old  time." 

Weary's  eyes  opened  a  bit  wider,  then  drooped 
humorously.  "Oh,  all  right,"  he  murmured,  as 
though  thoroughly  enlightened  rather  than  being 
rather  more  in  the  dark  than  before.  In  the  name 

275 


The     Unheavenly    Twins 

of  Irish  he  found  it  expedient  to  take  another  mod- 
est drink,  and  then  excused  himself  with  a  "See 
yuh  later,  boys,"  and  went  out  and  mounted  Glory. 

Ten  miles  nearer  the  railroad — which  at  that  was 
not  what  even  a  Montanan  would  call  close — he 
had  that  day  established  headquarters  and  was 
holding  a  bunch  of  saddle  horses  pending  the  ar- 
rival of  help.  He  rode  out  on  the  trail  thought- 
fully, a  bit  surprised  that  he  had  not  found  the  situ- 
ation more  amusing.  To  be  taken  for  Irish  was  a 
joke,  and  to  learn  thereby  of  Irish's  little  romance 
should  be  funny.  But  it  wasn't. 

Weary  wondered  how  Irish  got  mixed  up  in  a 
deal  like  that,  which  somehow  did  not  seem  to  be 
in  line  with  his  character.  And  he  wished,  a  bit 
vindictively,  that  this  Spikes  Weber  could  meet 
Irish.  He  rather  thought  that  Spikes  needed  the 
chastening  effects  of  such  a  meeting.  Weary, 
while  not  in  the  least  quarrelsome  on  his  own  ac- 
count, was  ever  the  staunch  defender  of  a  friend. 

Just  where  another  brown  trail  branched  off  and 
wandered  away  over  a  hill  to  the  east,  a  woman 

276 


The     Unheavenly    Twins 

rode  out  and  met  him  face  to  face.  She  pulled  up 
and  gave  a  little  cry  that  brought  Weary  involun- 
tarily to  a  halt. 

"You !"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  that  Weary  felt 
he  had  no  right  to  hear  from  any  but  his  little 
schoolma'am.  "But  I  knew  you'd  come  back  wher; 
you  heard  I — Have — have  you  seen  Spikes,  Ira?" 

Weary  flushed  embarrassment;  this  was  no  joke 
"No,"  he  stammered,  in  some  doubt  just  how  to 
proceed.     "The  fact  is,  you've  made  a  little  mis- 
take.   I'm  not—" 

"Oh,  you  needn't  go  o*.,"  she  interrupted,  and 
her  voice,  had  Weary  known  it  better,  heralded  the 
pouring  out  of  a  woman's  heart.  "I  know  I've 
made  a  mistake,  all  right;  you  don't  need  to  tell 
me  that.  And  I  suppose  you  want  to  tell  me  that 
you've  got  over — things;  that  you  don't  care,  an/ 
more.  Maybe  you  don't,  but  it'll  take  a  lot  to  make 
me  believe  it.  Because  you  did  care,  Ira.  You 
cared,  all  right  enough!"  She  laughed  in  the  way 
that  makes  one  very  uncomfortable. 

"And  maybe  you'll  tell  me  that  I  didn't.    But  I 
277 


The     Unheavenly    Twins 

did,  and  I  do  yet.  I  ain't  ashamed  to  say  it,  if  I 
did  marry  Spikes  Weber  just  to  spite  you.  That's 
all  it  was,  and  you'd  have  found  it  out  if  you  hadn't 
gone  off  the  way  you  did.  I  hate  Spikes  Weber; 
and  he  knows  it,  Ira.  He  knows  I — care — for 
you,  and  he's  making  my  life  a  hell.  Oh,  maybe  I 
deserve  it — but  you  won't —  Now  you've  come 
back,  you  can  have  it  out  with  him;  and  I — I  al- 
most hope  you'll  kill  him!  I  do,  and  I  don't  care 
if  it  is  wicked.  I — I  don't  care  for  anything  much, 
but — you."  She  had  big,  soft  brown  eyes,  and  a 
sweet,  weak  mouth,  and  she  stopped  and  looked  at 
Weary  in  a  way  that  he  could  easily  imagine  would 
be  irresistible — to  a  man  who  cared. 

Weary  felt  that  he  was  quite  helpless.  She  had 
hurried  out  sentences  that  sealed  his  lips.  He 
could  not  tell  her  now  that  she  had  made  a  mis- 
take; that  he  was  not  Ira  Mallory,  but  a  perfect 
stranger.  The  only  thing  to  do  now  was  to  carry 
the  thing  through  as  tactfully  as  possible,  and  get 
^  away  as  soon  as  he  could.  Playing  he  was  Irish, 
he  found,  was  not  without  its  disadvantages. 

278 


The     Unheavenly    Twins 

"What  particular  brand  of  hell  has  he  been  mak- 
ing for  you?  he  asked  her  sympathetically. 

"I  wouldn't  think,  knowing  Spikes  as  you  do, 
you'd  need  to  ask,"  she  said  impatiently.  "The 
same  old  brand,  I  guess.  He  gets  drunk,  and  then 
— I  told  him,  right  out,  just  after  we  were  married, 
that  I  liked  you  the  best,  and  he  don't  forget  it ;  and 
he  don't  let  me.  He  swears  he'll  shoot  you  on  sight — 
as  if  that  would  do  any  good!  He  hates  you,  Ira." 
She  laughed  again  unpleasantly. 

Weary,  sitting  uneasily  in  the  saddle  looking  at 
her,  wondered  if  Irish  really  cared;  or  if,  in 
Weary's  place,  he  would  have  sat  there  so  calmly  and 
just  looked  at  her.  She  was  rather  pretty,  in  a  pink 
and  white,  weak  way.  He  could  easily  imagine 
her  marrying  Spikes  Weber  for  mere  spite; 
what  he  could  not  imagine,  was  Irish  in  love  with 
her. 

It  seemed  almost  as  if  she  caught  a  glimmer  of 
his  thoughts,  for  she  reined  closer,  and  her  teeth 
were  digging  into  her  lower  lip.  "Well,  aren't  you 
going  to  do  anything?"  she  demanded  desperately. 

279 


The     Unheavenly    Twins 

"You're  here,  and  I've  told  you  I — care.  Are  you 
going  to  leave  me  to  bear  Spikes'  abuse  always?" 

"You  married  him,"  Weary  remarked  mildly 
and  a  bit  defensively.  It  seemed  to  him  that  loy- 
alty to  Irish  impelled  him. 

She  tossed  her  head  contemptuously.  "It's  nice 
to  throw  that  at  me.  I  might  get  back  at  you  and 
say  you  loved  me.  You  did,  you  know." 

"And  you  married  Spikes;  what  can  /  do  about 
it?" 

"What — can — you — do — about  it?  Did  you 
come  back  to  ask  me  that?"  There  was  a  well 
defined,  white  line  around  her  mouth,  and  her  eyes 
were  growing  ominously  bright. 

Weary  did  not  like  the  look  of  her,  nor  her  tone. 
He  felt,  somehow,  glad  that  it  was  not  Irish,  but 
himself;  Irish  might  have  felt  the  thrall  of  old 
times — whatever  they  were — and  have  been 
tempted.  His  eyes,  also,  grew  ominous,  but  his 
voice  was  very  smooth  (Irish,  too,  had  that  trait 
jof  being  quietest  when  he  was  most  roused.) 

"I  came  back  on  business ;  I  will  confess  I  didn't 
280 


The    Unheavenly    Twins 

come  to  see  you,"  he  said.  "I'm  only  a  bone- 
headed  cowpuncher,  but  even  cowpunchers  can  play 
square.  They  don't,  as  a  rule  step  in  between  a 
man  and  his  wife.  You  married  Spikes,  and  ac- 
cording to  your  own  tell,  you  did  it  to  spite  me. 
So  I  say  again,  what  can  7  do  about  it  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  dazedly. 

"Uh  course,"  he  went  on  gently,  "I  won't  stand 
to  see  any  man  abuse  his  wife,  or  bandy  her  name 
or  mine  around  the  country.  If  I  should  happen 
to  meet  up  with  Spikes,  there'll  likely  be  some  dust 
raised.  And  if  I  was  you,  and  Spikes  abused  me, 
I'd  quit  him  cold." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  she  said  sharply,  with  an  exaggera- 
tion of  scorn.  "You  have  got  over  it,  then. 
There's  someone  else.  I  might  have  known  a  man 
can't  be  trusted  to  care  for  the  same  woman  long. 
You  ran  after  me  and  acted  the  fool,  and  kept  on 
till  you  made  me  believe  you  really  meant  all  you 
said—" 

"And  you  married  Spikes,"  Weary  reiterated — 
ungenerously,  perhaps;  but  it  was  the  only  card 

281 


The     Unheavenly    Twins 

he  felt  sure  of.  There  was  no  gainsaying  that  fact, 
it  seemed.  She  had  married  Spikes  in  a  fit  of 
pique  at  Irish.  Still,  it  was  not  well  to  remind  her 
of  it  too  often.  In  the  next  five  minutes  of  tumult- 
uous recrimination,  Weary  had  cause  to  remember 
what  Shakespeare  has  to  say  about  a  woman 
scorned,  and  he  wondered,  more  than  ever,  if 
Irish  had  really  cared.  The  girl — even  now  he  did 
not  know  what  name  to  call  her — was  showing  a 
strain  of  coarse  temper;  the  temper  that  must  de- 
scend to  personalities  and  the  calling  of  unflatter- 
ing names.  Weary,  not  being  that  type  of  male 
human  who  can  retort  in  kind,  sat  helpless  and 
speechless  the  while  she  oerated  him.  When  &.t 
last  he  found  opportunity  for  closing  the  interview 
and  riding  on,  her  anger-sharpened  voice  followed 
him  shrewishly  afar.  Weary  breathed  deep  relief 
when  the  distance  swallowed  it,  and  lifted  his  gray 
hat  to  wipe  his  beaded  forehead. 

"Mamma  mine!"  he  said  fervently  to  Glory. 
"Irish  was  sure  playing  big  luck  when  she  did 
marry  Spikes ;  and  I  don't  wonder  at  the  poor  devil 

282 


The     Unheavenly    Twins 

taking  to  drink.    I  would,  coo,  if  my  little  school- 
ma'am — " 

At  the  ranch,  he  hastened  to  make  it  quite  plain 
that  he  was  not  Ira  Mallory,  but  merely  his  cousin, 
Will  Davidson.  He  was  quite  determined  to  put  a 
stop  to  all  this  annoying  mixing  up  of  identities. 
And  as  for  Spikes  Weber,  since  meeting  the  wo- 
man Spike?  claimed  from  him  something  very  like 
sympathy'  only  Weary  had  no  mind  to  stand 
calmly  ?  j.  hear  Irish  maligned  by  anybody. 

The  next  day  he  rode  again  to  Sleepy  Trail  to 
meet  the  stage,  hoping  fervently  that  he  would  get 
some  word — and  that  favorable — from  Chip.  He 
was  thinking,  just  then,  a  great  deal  about  his  own 
affairs  and  not  at  all  about  the  affairs  of  Irish.  So 
that  he  was  inside  the  saloon  before  he  remembered 
that  the  bartender  knew  him  for  Irish. 

The  bartender  nodded  to  him  in  friendly  fashion, 
and  jerked  his  head  warningly  toward  a  far  corner 
where  two  men  sat  playing  seven-up  half-heartedly. 
Weary  looked,  saw  that  both  were  strangers,  and 
puzzled  a  minute  over  the  mysterious  gesture  of  the 


The     Unheavenly    Twins 

bartender.  It  did  not  occur  to  him,  just  then,  that 
one  of  the  men  might  be  Spikes  Weber. 

The  man  who  was  facing  him  flipped  the  corners 
of  the  cards  idly  together  and  glanced  up;  saw 
•Weary  standing  there  with  an  elbow  on  the  bar 
looking  at  him,  and  pushed  back  his  chair  with  an 
oath  unmistakably  warlike.  Weary  resettled  his 
hat  and  looked  mildly  surprised.  The  bartender 
moved  out  of  range  and  watched  breathlessly. 

"You     1"    swore    Spikes 

Weber,  coming  truculently  forward,  hand  to  hip. 
He  was  of  medium  height  and  stockily  built,  with 
the  bull  neck  and  little,  deep-set  eyes  that  go  often 
with  a  nature  quarrelsome. 

Weary  still  leaned  his  elbow  on  the  bar  and 
smiled  at  him  tolerantly.  "Feel  bad  anywhere?" 
ic  wanted  to  know,  when  the  other  was  very  close, 

Spikes  Weber,  from  very  surprise,  stopped  and 
•egarded  Weary  for  a  space  before  he  began  swear- 
ing again.  His  hand  was  still  at  his  hip,  but  the 
gun  it  touched  remained  in  his  pocket.  Plainly,  he 
had  not  expected  just  this  attitude. 

284 


The     Unheavenly    Twins 

Weary  waited,  smothering  a  yawn,  until  the 
other  finished  a  particularly  pungent  paragraph. 
"A  good  jolt  uh  brandy  '11  sometimes  cure  a  bad 
case  uh  colic,"  he  remarked.  "Better  have  our 
friend  here  fix  yuh  up — but  it'll  be  on  you.  I  ain't 
paying  for  drinks  just  now." 

Spikes  snorted  and  began  upon  the  pedigree  and 
general  character  of  Irish.  Weary  took  his  elbow 
off  the  bar,  and  his  eyes  lost  their  sunniness  and 
became  a  hard  blue,  darker  than  was  usual.  It  took 
a  good  deal  to  rouse  Weary  to  the  fighting  point, 
and  it  is  saying  much  for  the  tongue  of  Spikes  that 
Weary  was  roused  thoroughly. 

"That'll  be  about  enough,"  he  said  sharply,  cut- 
ting short  a  sentence  from  the  other.  "I  kinda 
hated  to  start  in  and  take  yuh  all  to  pieces — but 
yuh  better  saw  off  right  there,  or  I  can't  be  respon- 
sible—" 

A  gun  barrel  caught  the  light  menacingly,  and 
Weary  sprang  like  the  pounce  of  a  cat,  wrested  the 
gun  from  the  hand  of  Spikes  and  rapped  him 
smartly  over  the  head  with  the  barrel.  "Yuh 

285 


The     Unheavenly    Twins 

would,  eh  ?"  he  snarled,  and  tossed  the  gun  upon  the 
bar,  where  the  bartender  caught  it  as  it  slid  along 
the  smooth  surface  and  put  it  out  of  reach. 

After  that,  chairs  went  spinning  out  of  the  way, 
and  glasses  jingled  to  the  impact  of  a  body  strik- 
ing the  floor  with  much  force.  Came  the  slapping 
sound  of  hammering  fists  and  the  scuffling  of 
booted  feet,  together  with  the  hard  breathing  of 
fighting  men. 

Spikes,  on  his  back,  looked  up  into  the  blazing 
eyes  he  thought  were  the  eyes  of  Irish  and  silently 
acknowledged  defeat.  But  Weary  would  not  let 
it  go  at  that. 

"Are  yuh  whipped  to  a  finish,  so  that  yuh  don't 
want  any  more  trouble  with  anybody  ?"  he  wanted 
to  know. 

Spikes  hesitated  but  the  fraction  of  a  second  be- 
fore he  growled  a  reluctant  yes. 

"Are  yuh  a  low-down,  lying  sneak  of  a  woman* 
fighter,  that  ain't  got  nerve  enough  to  stand  up 
square  to  a  ten-year-old  boy?" 

Spikes  acknowledged  that  he  was.  Before  the 
286 


The     Unheavenly    Twins 

impromptu  catechism  was  ended,  Spikes  had  ac- 
knowledged other  and  more  humiliating  things — 
to  the  delectation  of  the  bartender,  the  stage  driver 
and  two  or  three  men  of  leisure  who  were  listening. 

When  Spikes  had  owned  to  being  every  mean, 
unknowable  thing  that  Weary  could  call  to  mind — • 
and  his  imagination  was  never  of  the  barren  sort- 
Weary  generously  permitted  him  to  get  upon  his 
feet  and  skulk  out  to  where  his  horse  was  tied. 
After  that,  Weary  gave  his  unruffled  attention  to 
the  stage  driver  and  discovered  the  unwelcome  fact 
that  there  was  no  letter  and  no  telegram  for  one 
William  Davidson,  who  looked  a  bit  glum  when 
he  heard  it. 

So  he,  too,  went  out  and  mounted  Glory  and 
rode  away  to  the  ranch  where  waited  the  horses; 
and  as  he  went  he  thought,  for  perhaps  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  some  hard  and  unflattering  things 
of  Chip  Bennett.  He  had  never  dreamed  Chip 
would  calmly  overlook  his  needs  and  leave  him  in 
the  lurch  like  this. 

At  the  ranch,  when  he  had  unsaddled  Glory  and 


The    Unheavenly    Twins 

gone  to  the  bunk-house,  he  discovered  Irish,  Pink 
and  Happy  Jack  wrangling  amicably  over  whom 
a  certain  cross-eyed  girl  on  the  train  had  been  look- 
ing at  most  of  the  time.  Since  each  one  claimed  all 
the  glances  for  himself,  and  since  there  seemed  no 
possible  way  of  settling  the  dispute,  they  gave  over 
the  attempt  gladly  when  Weary  appeared,  and 
wanted  to  know,  first  thing,  who  or  what  had  been 
gouging  the  hide  off  his  face. 

Weary,  not  aware  until  the  moment  that  he  was 
wounded,  answered  that  he  had  done  it  shaving; 
at  which  the  three  hooted  derision  and  wanted  to 
know  since  when  he  had  taken  to  shaving  his  nose. 
Weary  smiled  inscrutably  and  began  talking  of 
something  else  until  he  had  weaned  them  from  the 
subject,  and  learned  that  they  had  bribed  the  stage 
driver  to  let  them  off  at  this  particular  ranch;  for 
the  stage  driver  knew  Irish,  and  knew  also  that  a 
man  he  had  taken  to  be  Irish  was  making  this  place 
his  headquarters.  The  stage  driver  was  one  of 
tjjose  male  gossips  who  know  everything. 

When  he  could  conveniently  do  so,  Weary  took 
288 


The    Unheavenly    Twins 

Irish  out  of  hearing  of  the  others  and  told  him 
about  Spikes  Weber.  Irish  merely  swore.  After 
that,  Weary  told  him  about  Spikes  Weber's  wife, 
in  secret  fear  and  with  much  tact,  but  in  grim  detail, 
Irish  listened  with  never  a  word  to  say. 

"I  done  what  looked  to  me  the  best  thing,  uridei 
the  circumstances,"  Weary  apologized  at  the  last, 
"and  I  hope  I  haven't  mixed  yuh  up  a  bunch 
uh  trouble.  Mamma  mine !  she's  sure  on  the  fight, 
though,  and  she's  got  a  large,  black  opinion  of  yuh 
as  a  constant  lover.  If  yuh  want  to  square  your- 
self with  her,  Irish,  you've  got  a  big  contract." 

"I  don't  want  to  square  myself,"  Irish  retorted, 
grinning  a  bit.  "I  did  have  it  bad,  I  admit;  but 
when  she  went  and  got  tied  up  to  Spikes,  that 
cured  me  right  off.  She's  kinda  pretty,  and  girls 
were  scarce,  and — oh,  hell!  you  know  how  it  goes 
with  a  man.  I'd  a  married  her  and  found  out  af- 
terwards that  her  mind  was  like  a  little  paper  wind- 
mill stuck  up  on  the  gatepost  with  a  shingle  nail — 
only  she  saved  me  the  trouble.  Uh  course,  I  was 
some  sore  over  the  deal  for  awhile:  but  I  made  uo 


The     Unheavenly    Twins 

my  mind  long  ago  that  Spikes  was  the  only  one 
in  the  bunch  that  had  any  sympathy  coming.  If 
he's  been  acting  up  like  you  say,  I  change  the  ver- 
dict :  there  ain't  anything  coming  to  him  but  a  big 
bunch  uh  trouble.  I'm  much  obliged  to  yuh, 
Weary;  you  done  me  a  good  turn  and  earnt  a  lot 
uh  gratitude,  which  is  yours  for  keeps.  Wonder 
if  supper  ain't  about  due;  I've  the  appetite  of  a 
Billy  goat,  if  anybody  should  ask  yuh." 

At  supper  Irish  was  uncommonly  silent,  and  did 
some  things  without  thinking ;  such  as  pouring  a  gen- 
erous stream  of  condensed  cream  into  his  coffee. 
Weary,  knowing  well  that  Irish  drank  his  coffee 
without  cream,  vvatched  him  a  bit  closer  than  he 
would  otherwise  have  done;  Irish  was  the  sort  of 
man  who  does  not  always  act  by  rule. 

After  supper  Weary  missed  him  quite  suddenly, 
and  went  to  the  door  of  the  bunk-house  to  see 
where  he  had  gone.  He  did  not  see  Irish,  but  on 
a  hilltop,  in  the  trail  that  led  to  Sleepy  Trail,  he 
$aw  a  flurry  of  dust.  Two  minutes  of  watching 
saw  it  drift  out  of  sight  over  the  hill,  which  proved 

290 


The     Unheavenly    Twins 

that  the  maker  was  traveling  rapidly  away  from 
the  ranch.  Weary  settled  his  hat  down  to  his  eye- 
brows and  went  out  to  find  the  foreman. 

The  foreman,  down  at  the  stable,  said  that  Irish 
had  borrowed  a  horse  from  him,  unsacked  his  sad- 
dle as  if  he  were  in  a  hurry  about  something,  and 
had  pulled  out  on  a  high  lope.  No,  he  had  not  told 
the  foreman  where  he  was  headed  for,  and  the  fore- 
man knew  Irish  too  well  to  ask.  Yes.  now  Weary 
spoke  of  it,  Irish  did  have  his  gun  buckled  on  him, 
and  he  headed  for  Sleepy  Trail. 

Weary  waited  for  no  further  information.  He 
threw  his  saddle  on  a  horse  that  he  knew  could 
get  out  and  drift,  if  need  came;  presently  he,  too, 
was  chasing  a  brown  dust  cloud  over  the  hill  to 
ward  Sleepy  Trail. 

That  Irish  had  gone  to  find  Spikes  Weber, 
Weary  was  positive;  that  Spikes  was  not  a  man 
who  could  be  trusted  to  fight  fair,  he  was  even 
more  positive.  Weary,  however,  was  not  afraid 
for  Irish — he  was  merely  a  bit  uneasy  and  a  bit 
anxious  to  be  on  hand  when  came  the  meeting.  He 

291 


The    U  n  heavenly    Twin* 

spurred  along  the  trail  darkening  with  the  after- 
glow of  a  sun  departed  and  night  creeping  down 
upon  the  land,  and  wondered  whether  he  would  be 
able  to  come  up  with  Irish  before  he  reached  town. 

At  the  place  where  the  trail  forked — the  place 
where  he  had  met  the  wife  of  Spikes,  he  saw  from 
a  distance  another  rider  gallop  out  of  the  dusk  and 
follow  in  the  way  that  Irish  had  gone.  Without 
other  evidence  than  mere  instinct,  he  knew  the 
horseman  for  Spikes.  When,  further  along,  the 
horseman  left  the  trail  and  angled  away  down  a 
narrow  coulee,  Weary  rode  a  bit  fasten  He  did 
not  know  the  country  very  well,  and  was  not  sure 
of  where  that  coulee  led;  but  he  knew  the  nature 
of  a  man  like  Spikes  Weber,  and  his  uneasiness 
was  not  lulled  at  the  sight.  He  meant  to  overtake 
Irish,  if  he  could;  after  that  he  had  no  plan  what- 
tver. 

When,  however,  he  came  to  the  place  where 
Spikes  had  turned  off,  Weary  turned  off  also  and 
followed  down  the  coulee;  and  he  did  not  explain 
why.  even  to  himself.  He  only  hurried  to  over- 


The     Unheaventy    Twins 

take  the  other,  or  at  least  to  keep  him  in 
sight. 

The  darkness  lightened  to  bright  starlight,  with 
a  moon  not  yet  in  its  prime  to  throw  shadows  black 
And  mysterious  against  the  coulee  sides.  The  cou- 
lee itself,  Weary  observed,  was  erratic  in  the  mat- 
ter of  height,  width  and  general  direction.  Places 
there  were  where  the  width  dwindled  until  there 
was  scant  room  for  the  cow  trail  his  horse  con- 
scientiously followed;  places  there  were  where  the 
walls  were  easy  slopes  to  climb,  and  others  where 
the  rocks  hung,  a  sheer  hundred  feet,  above  him. 

One  of  the  easy  slopes  came  near  throwing  him 
off  the  trail  of  Spikes.  He  climbed  the  slope,  and 
Weary  would  have  ridden  by,  only  that  he  caught 
a  brief  glimpse  of  something  on  the  hilltop;  some- 
thing that  moved,  and  that  looked  like  a  horseman. 
Puzzled  but  persistent,  Weary  turned  back  where 
the  slope  was  easiest,  and  climbed  also.  He  did  not 
know  the  country  well  enough  to  tell,  in  that  come- 
and-go  light  made  uncertain  by  drifting  clouds, 
just  where  he  was  or  where  he  would  bring  up;  he 


The    Unheavenly    Twins 

only  knew  instinctively  that  where  Spikes  rode, 
trouble  rode  also. 

Quite  suddenly  at  the  last  came  further  knowl« 
edge.  It  was  when,  still  following,  he  rode  along 
a  steeply  sloping  ridge  that  narrowed  perceptibly, 
that  he  looked  down,  down,  and  saw,  winding 
brownly  in  the  starlight,  a  trail  that  must  be  the 
trail  he  had  left  at  the  coulee  head. 

"Mamma !"  he  ejaculated  softly,  and  strained 
eyes  under  his  hatbrim  to  glimpse  the  figure  he 
knew  rode  before.  Then,  looking  down  again,  he 
saw  a  horseman  galloping  rapidly  towards  the 
ridge,  and  pulled  up  short  when  he  should  have 
done  the  opposite — for  it  was  then  that  seconds 
counted. 

When  the  second  glance  showed  the  horseman 
to  be  Irish,  Weary  drove  in  his  spurs  and  galloped 
forward.  Ten  leaps  perhaps  he  made,  when  a  rifle 
shot  came  sharply  ahead.  He  glanced  down  and 
saw  horse  and  rider  lying,  a  blotch  of  indefin- 
able shape,  in  the  trail.  Weary  drew  his  own  gun 
and  went  on,  his  teeth  set  tight  together.  Now, 

294 


The     Unheavenly    Twins 

when  it  was  too  late,  he  understood  thoroughly 
the  situation. 

He  came  clattering  out  of  the  gloom  to  the  very 
point  of  the  bluff,  just  where  it  was  highest  and 
where  it  crowded  closest  the  trail  a  long  hundred 
feet  below.  A  man  stood  there  on  the  very  edge, 
with  a  rifle  in  his  hands.  He  may  have  been 
crouching,  just  before,  but  now  he  was  standing 
erect,  looking  fixedly  down  at  the  dark  heap  in  the 
trail  below,  and  his  figure,  alert  yet  unwatchful, 
was  silhouetted  sharply  against  the  sky. 

When  Weary,  gun  at  aim,  charged  furiously 
down  upon  him,  he  whirled,  ready  to  give  battle 
for  his  life;  saw  the  man  he  supposed  was  lying 
down  there  dead  in  the  trail,  and  started  backward 
with  a  yell  of  pure  terror.  "Irish!"  He  toppled, 
threw  the  rifle  from  him  in  a  single  convulsive 
movement  and  went  backward,  down  and  down. — 

Weary  got  off  his  horse  and,  gun  still  gripped 
firmly,  walked  to  the  edge  and  looked  down.  In 
his  face,  dimly  revealed  in  the  fitful  moonlight, 
there  was  no  pity  but  a  look  of  baffled  vengeance 

295 


The     Unheavenly    Twins 

Down  at  the  foot  of  the  bluff  the  shadows  lay  deep 
and  hid  all  they  held,  but  out  in  the  trail  something 
moved,  rose  up  and  stood  still  a  moment,  his  face 
turned  upward  to  where  stood  Weary. 

"Are  yuh  hurt,  Irish?"  Weary  called  anxiously 
down  to  him. 

"Never  touched  me,"  came  the  answer  from  be- 
low. "He  got  my  horse,  damn  him!  and  I  just  laid 
still  and  kept  cases  on  what  he'd  do  next.  Come 
on  down!" 

Weary  was  already  climbing  recklessly  down 
to  where  the  shadows  reached  long  arms  up  to 
him.  It  was  not  safe,  in  that  uncertain  light,  but 
Weary  was  used  to  taking  chances.  Irish,  stand- 
ing still  beside  the  dead  horse,  watched  and  listened 
to  the  rattle  of  small  stones  slithering  down,  and 
the  clink  of  spur  chains  upon  the  rocks. 

Together  the  two  went  into  the  shadows  and 
stood  over  a  heap  of  something  that  had  been  a 
man. 

"I  never  did  kill  a  man,"  Weary  remarked, 
touching  the  heap  lightly  with  his  foot  "But  I 

296 


T  h  e    Unheavenly    Twins 

sure  would  have,  that  time,  if  he  hadn't  dropped 
tust  before  I  cut  loose  on  him." 

Irish  turned  and  looked  at  him.  Standing  so, 
one  would  have  puzzled  long  to  know  them  apart 
"You've  done  a  lot  for  me,  Weary,  this  trip,"  he 
said  gravely.  "I'm  sure  obliged." 


B.  M.  Bower's 

THRILLING  STORIES  of  the  WESTERN  PLAINS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.  Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list. 

Breath-taking  stories  of  quick  action  and  adventure  on  the 
open  range.  B.  M.  Bower  knows  the  West  of  yesterday  and 
today — its  blazing  feuds  and  ruthless  laws  of  survival. 
These  yarns  are  packed  with  the  kind  of  romance  and 
action  you've  been  looking  for. 

THE  WHOOP-UP  TRAIL 

OPEN  LAND 

TRAILS  MEET 

ROCKING  ARROW 

LAUGHING  WATER 

FOOL'S  GOAL 

THE  SWALLOWFORK  BULLS 

HAY-WIRE 

CHIP  OF  THE  FLYING-U 

FLYING-U  RANCH 

FLYING-U'S  LAST  STAND 

THE  LONESOME  TRAIL 

THE  RANGE  DWELLERS 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP         Publishers         NEW  YORK 


Zane  Grey's  Thrilling  Novels 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.  Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunkp's  list. 


Zane  Grey  has  lived  the  rugged  life  he  writes  about  in 
his  books.  The  wild  fierce  blood  of  Indian  chiefs  flows  in 
his  veins.  All  his  stories  are  splendidly  American,  thrill- 
ing, romantic,  packed  with  action  and  color. 


Code  of  the  West 
Robber's  Roost 
Drift  Fence 
Arizona  Ames 
Sunset  Pass 

The  Shepherd  of 
Guadaloupe 

Fighting  Caravans 

Wild  Horse  Mesa 

Nevada 

Forlorn  River 

Under  the  Tonto  Rim 

The  Vanishing  American 

Tappan's  Burro 

The  Thundering  Herd 

Wanderer  of  the 
Wasteland 


The  Call  of  the  Canyon    , 

The  Hash  Knife  Outfit 

To  the  Last  Man 

The  Mysterious  Rider 

The  Man  of  the  Forest 

The  U-P  Trail 

Wildfire 

The  Border  Legion 

The  Rainbow  Trail 

The  Heritage  of  the  Desert 

Riders  of  the  Purple  Sage 

Light  of  Western  Stars 

The  Lone  Star  Ranger 

Desert  Gold 

Betty  Zane 


GROSSET  &  DUNLAP        Publishers        NEW  YORK 


William  MacLeod  Raines 

DASHING  NOVELS  of  FRONTIER  LIFE 

May  be  Aad  wherever  books  are  sold.  Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list. 


Raine  himself  once  rode  the  plains  with  the  Arizona  Rang- 
ers. So  the  hiss  of  the  branding  iron  and  the  music  of 
spitting  six-shooters  are  no  strangers  to  him. 


The  Trail  of  Danger 

For  Honor  and  Life 

Under  Northern  Stars 

Beyond  the  Rio  Grande 

The  Valiant 

Colorado 

The  Fighting  Edge 

The  Big-Town  Round-up 

A  Man  Four  Square 

Brand  Blotters 

Wyoming 

Crooked  Trails  and 
Straight 


Roaring  River 
The  Broad  Arrow 
The  Black  Tolts 

Rutledge  Trails  the  Ace 
of  Spades 

The  Fighting  Tenderfoot 

Judge  Colt 

Gunsight  Pass 

Oh,  You  Tex! 

A  Texas  Ranger 

Bucky  O'Connor 

A  Daughter  of  the  Dons 

Ridgeway  of  Montana 


GROSSET  &  DUNLAP        Publishers        NEW  YORK 


James  Oliver  Curwood's 

POWERFUL  STORIES  OF  THE  GREAT  NORTH 
EACH  AND  EVERY  ONE  A  THRILLER 


May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.  Ask  for  Grosser  &  Dunlap's  list. 

FAULKNER  OF  THE  INLAND  SEAS 

SON  OF  THE  FORESTS 

GREEN  TIMBER 

THE  LADY  OF  PERIBONKA 

THE  PLAINS  OF  ABRAHAM 

THE  BLACK  HUNTER 

THE  ANCIENT  HIGHWAY 

A  GENTLEMAN  OF  COURAGE 

THE  ALASKAN 

THE  COUNTRY  BEYOND 

THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

THE  RIVER'S  END 

KAZAN 

BAREE,  SON  OF  KAZAN 

THE  DANGER  TRAIL 

THE  HUNTED  WOMAN 

THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  NORTH 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP  Publishers  NEW  YORK 


NOVELS  OF  Edgar  Rice  Burroughs 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.  Ask  for  Grosser  &  Dunlap's  list. 

Burroughs  ranks  today  as  one  of  the  most  widely  read  of  liv- 
ing authors. 

THE  FAMOUS  TARZAN  BOOKS 

Tarzan  of  the  Apes  Tarzan  and  the  Golden  Lion 

The  Return  of  Tarzan  Tarzan  and  the  Ant  Men   . 

Trie  Beasts  of  Tarzan  Tarzan,  Lord  of  the  Jungle 

The  Son  of  Tarzan  Tarzan  and  the  Lost  Empire 

Tarzan  and  the  Jewels  of  Opar  Tarzan  at  the  Earth's  Core 

Jungle  Tales  of  Tarzan  Tarzan,  the  Invincible 

Tarzan  the  Untamed  Tarzan  Triumphant 

Tarzan  the  Terrible  Tarzan  and  the  City  of  Gold 
Tarzan  and  the  Lion  Man 

OTHER  STORIES  OF  ADVENTURE 

The  War  Chief  The  Eternal  Lover 

The  Cave  Girl  At  the  Earth's  Core 

The  Mucker  The  Land  That  Time  Forgot 

Pellucidar  Tanar  of  Pellucidar 

The  Monster  Men  Jungle  Girl 

The  Outlaw  of  Torn  Apache  Devil 

THE  MARVELOUS  MARTIAN  STORIES 

A  Princess  of  Mars  The  Chessmen  of  Mars 

The  Gods  of  Mars  The  Master  Mind  of  Mars 

The  Warlord  of  Mars  A  Fighting  Man  of  Mars 

Thuvia,  Maid  of  Mars  Pirates  of  Venus 


GROSSET  &  DUNLAP  Publishers  NEW  YORK 


Peter  B.  Kyne's  Novels 


May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.  Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list. 


Mr.  Kyne  is  a  globe-trotter  and  all  the  seven  seas  and  the 
islands  therein  are  likely  in  the  future  to  contribute  color  for 
the  vivid  stories  of  action  and  romance  which  come  so  readily 
to  his  teeming  fancy.  And  these  will  be  welcomed  by  the 
legion  of  readers  who  look  to  him  for  entertainment  in  an 
all  'round  good  story. 


Gappy  Ricks  Comes  Back 
Comrades  of  the  Storm 
Two  Made  a  World 
Lord  of  Lonely  Valley 
The  Gringo  Privateer 
Outlaws  of  Eden 
Golden  Dawn 
Jim  the  Conqueror 
The  Parson  of  Panamint 
Tide  of  Empire 


The  Thunder  God 
They  Also  Serve 
The  Understanding  Heart 
The  Enchanted  Hill 
Never  the  Twain  Shall  Meet 
The  Pride  of  Palomar 
Cappy  Ricks 
Kindred  of  the  Dust 
The  Valley  of  the  Giants 
Captain  Scraggs 


GROSSET  &  DUNLAP 


Publishers 


NEW  YORK 


A  SELECTED  LIST  OF  THRILLING 

WESTERN    NOVELS 

By  outstanding  authors  of  recent  years 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.  Ask  for  Grosser  &  Dunlap's  list. 

CODE  OF  THE  WEST Zane  Grey 

WEST  OF  THE  APACHE  PASS  . . .  .Charles  Alden  Seltzer 

PARADISE  RANGE 8 George  Johnson 

DRY-GULCH  ADAMS Peter  Field 

THE  TRAIL  OF  DANGER William  MacLeod  Raine 

MONTANA  RIDES  AGAIN Evan  Evans 

RIFLED  GOLD   W.  C.  Turtle 

TEXAS  SHERIFF Edward  Cunningham 

RENEGADE  RIDERS Claude  Rister 

RIDERS  OF  THE  CHAPARRAL George  B.  Rodney 

VALLEY  OF  ADVENTURE Jackson  Gregory 

THE  WHOOP-UP  TRAIL B.  M.  Bower 

THIRSTY  RANGE E.  B.  Mann 

SILVER  RIVER  RANCH L.  A.  Keating 

HELL-CRAZY  RANCH Francis  Hilton 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP  Publishers  NEW  YORK 


_:•«« 


LD21 


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